


Facilis Descensus Averno

by AriRashkae



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Accidental Kid Acquisition, Character as conscience through being a dick, Found Family, Gen, Illustrated, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, Red vs blue big bang 2017, RvB Big Bang 2017, Suicidal Thoughts, canon typical language, little bit of sickfic, non-graphic OC death, post s13
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-09-25 08:18:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 26,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9811013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AriRashkae/pseuds/AriRashkae
Summary: “The Descent to Hell is Easy”It's realizing you need to turn around and climb back out that's a real bitch. Sometimes you can do it on your own. Sometimes your friends give you a hand.And sometimes the Universe gets sick of your shit and cuts itself a Clue-by-4.(Art in Ch 2, 7, 10)





	1. I. “Nocere facilis est; prodesse difficle.”

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to the incomparable [Eclaire-de-lune](http://eclaire-de-lune.tumblr.com/) for beta-ing my written-while-half-asleep drafts and gently whacking me with a rolled up newspaper when I missed things! And for putting up with my whining on Tumblr every time I sat down to edit and realized how not awake I had been XD

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“It’s easy to harm; it’s difficult to help.”_

There weren’t many pleasant duties when it came to loading and unloading freight, but forktruck duty came close. Center the tines, lift slightly, tilt back. Line up, set down. Repeat. If it weren’t for the break bells and the radio chatter, it would be easy to lose oneself in the repetition. 

_“Gates.”_

It was almost meditative at times, soothing to nerves still twitching from another poor night’s sleep.

_“Yo, Gates.”_

Locus kept moving, hearing but not really registering the call over the radio. It blended in with the noise of machinery and longshores that was everywhere on the Docks.

 _“_ Gates. _Pick up the damn radio.”_

What was that idiot doing this time? He jumped as someone climbed up on his truck and tapped his shoulder. “Hey, Sam.”

Xiomara Aubin stood on the running board, one hand gripping the roll cage to help her balance. The other was holding back the curls that were forever escaping her braid. From the look on her face, she wasn’t too happy about having to deliver this news in person. He set down his current load and killed the throttle. “What?”

She recoiled slightly at his growl. Locus took a deep breath. Upsetting one’s supervisor was not the most intelligent move. “Sorry. Rough night.”

“Yeah, well, get it together. Boss wants you over on Dock Three. Tanner didn’t show. Again.”

He grimaced. “Right.”

She offered him a sympathetic smile. “Rumor has it he’s _this_ close to being canned, if that helps?” She took his place in the truck as he jumped down.

“A bit,” he replied, even though they both knew it wasn’t going to happen. The Docks were perpetually shorthanded.

Locus hated being on Dock Three. Fortunately, he only ever had to cover it when Tanner got too drunk the night before and didn’t bother showing up. Sadly, that happened at least twice a month. Dock Three meant working the crane. Being up in the cabin, far above the noise and the action, connected to the others only through the radio … It brought back a lot of things he’d rather leave buried.

Unfortunately, he’d been hired specifically to fill in the odd slots left by the ever shifting numbers on the Docks, and if Dock Three needed filling, there he went. Maybe when the new orbital platforms were finished there wouldn’t be as much need for manual labor, but for now everything needed to be shipped dirtside for inspection and transfer. It wasn’t uncommon for someone to leave the ship they arrived on, or decide to sign on when one left. It made covering shifts an absolute headache for the higher-ups.

It was also exactly how Locus had been traveling towards the central worlds, until he got stuck here, on a forgettable mudball who’s only claim to importance was being near a junction of several secondary shipping lanes. Until he found a ship heading the right direction, signing on as a longshore seemed the best way to keep an eye on the schedules. 

Longshores also made _more_ than enough to cover his meager expenses, and bank the rest against emergencies. Of course, what most people considered and emergency, and what _Locus_ considered an emergency were two very different things. He doubted most people worried about, for example, forging a new identity when they arrived somewhere. He knew enough to manage one that would pass a cursory examination. Anything stronger – say, firearms permits – required the skills of a professional.

He still wasn’t sure what had possessed him to use a combination of his and Felix’s legal names this time. It was far too obvious to anyone who had any idea of his past. And it wasn’t like he hadn’t use completely fictitious names when he’d needed other identities.

But both first and last names were fairly common, so maybe it was obvious only to him. He’d picked up concealer for his scars at his second stop, so there wasn’t much worry about someone putting _that_ piece together. As he settled the headset of the crane over his ears, he decided he was just being paranoid again.

 

* * *

 

Locus hated crowds. Too many people, too many threats. Too much motion, too much noise, and all of it constantly changing in a way battle never did.

But he hated public transit even more. Being stuck in a small, enclosed place, crammed in with a bunch of strangers? Especially in a system as poorly maintained and prone to breakdowns as the one here? It would be _far_ too easy to slip a knife between his ribs, or something equally unpleasant. 

He was pretty sure he and Felix had done a job like that, at least once.

So, he walked. He found a tiny apartment that barely passed code near enough to the Docks, but it _did_ pass, so it was unlikely to burn down around him in the night.

The landlord didn’t care what happened with his tenants, as long as the rent got paid. As a result, the first thing Locus had done once he’d realized he was staying on-planet more than a few days was upgrade all the locks. He’d probably catch a lot of flak for it if anyone bothered to check, but at least he could sleep a little easier at night. For what that was worth. His immediate neighbors were mostly too busy and exhausted to be rowdy, but there were the occasional drunken parties or fights. Or one that turned into the other.

The entire neighborhood wasn’t much better; it may have been a few steps above ‘slum’, but they weren’t very large steps. Buildings badly in need of repair, people holding themselves together through sheer stubbornness … Sometimes he wondered why they’d ever bothered fighting the War at all. 

The most stubborn were the few who refused to accept that their neighborhood was dying, and fought to keep it lively and cheerful. Locus couldn’t tell if the attempts at window boxes, wall murals, and tiny alcove “parks” were optimism or denial. It depended on his mood.

Most of the traffic in the area was pedestrian, but Locus never had any trouble navigating the crowds. Most people would veer off to the side to avoid him, even if they never actually looked up. 

He trudged along the worn sidewalk, hands shoved in his pockets, shoulders hunched against the chill and the crowd. He reminded himself to invest in a warmer coat, since it didn’t look like he’d be leaving before the seasons – such as they were – changed again. The port may be close enough to the equator to keep the seasons from varying too much, but this far out from the sun, even the summers could be relatively cool.

Absently, he reached up to brush back the few stray hairs that stubbornly refused to grow long enough to pull back with the rest.

Having to take that extra fraction of a second to pull his other hand free turned out to be a blessing. It gave him that extra heartbeat to realize the wrist in his hand belonged to a child trying to pick his pocket, not an enemy trying to stab him.

He stood there a moment, staring into wide, brown eyes. Slowly, he lowered he fist he had poised to strike. Her cheeks, which had gone pale even under her dusky complexion, now flushed in embarrassment.

“Don’t do that,” he growled. He let go of the kid's wrist, shoving her back with more force than strictly necessary. But after a string of bad nights and lousy shifts, his temper – and his control – was fraying thin. It was a small miracle he hadn’t squeezed hard enough to feel bone breaking.

She stared up at him, clutching her injured wrist to her chest, before whirling and disappearing into the crowd. No one had even bothered to stop when he’d grabbed her.

He let out a slow breath, then turned back to his trek home, senses sharp for any more attempts on his self-control.

 

* * *

 

Later that night, Locus braced his arms against the sink and stared at himself in the tiny and pocked bathroom mirror. He gripped the chipped porcelain tight, knuckles almost cracking from the force.

_No more killing._

_You’re a soldier!_

_I’m a monster, like you._

_We’re partners!_ Survivors! _We_ need _each other!_

_I’m doing this for me._

He closed his eyes, a fading scream echoing in his ears.

He saw a child’s brown eyes, watering in pain.

It was going to be another bad night.

 

* * *

 

Locus took a different route home for the next few days. He wasn’t _avoiding_ the street where he’d nearly assaulted the girl. It was merely … prudent to stay away. That was what he told himself the first two days, anyway.

By the third, he admitted it to himself. He was afraid of running into her again. Afraid that if she tried again, he might not check himself in time.

He lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling. The mattress was old and uncomfortable; one of the springs was poking his shoulder, but he couldn’t be bothered to shift and try to find a better position.

He was a monster. There was no denying that. But maybe even a monster could be leashed. He had to hope so.

_Believing in fairy tales now?_

If he hadn’t been slowed down by that tiny sliver of a heartbeat, he _would_ have hit the girl. And the blow probably – no, _definitely_ – would have killed her.

Somehow that shook him more than every death he’d caused before.

_All those lives you’ve ended, and you’re worried about a single child you didn’t even kill. Guess one really is a tragedy, and millions a statistic._

Funny how that voice of doubt, of shame, sounded so much like Felix. It had been so much easier to ignore before, when he could keep moving. Now he was stuck here, with too much time and nothing to fill it.

_We had our orders._

Orders.

He just had to hold together until he could get to an inner colony. To one with a secure banking network. To the accounts they’d set up under even more false identities, squirreling away whatever they didn’t need immediately.

For all Felix had loved his luxuries, he’d been just as adamant about putting aside as much as they could. “For when we’re old and grey,” he would say, laughing at the absurdity of them living that long. Locus never had managed to get a real reason out of him, before the end.

Now Felix was gone, dead as much by his own partner’s hands as the simulation troopers’. And after he got to a planet with a decent banking system and took care of a few loose ends, Locus would probably end up following him.

 

* * *

 

A few days later, either fate intervened or his luck ran out, and he ran into her again.

More accurately, he almost stepped on her while she was out begging.

She was huddled on a street corner outside his usual grocer’s, dressed in faded and repeatedly patched clothes, with a battered metal bowl next to her. An ugly purple bruise covered one cheek, livid against her olive skin. The wrist he’d grabbed earlier was wrapped tight.

At least the bandage looked clean and new, if nothing else.

Her eyes widened slightly when she noticed him staring. She ducked her head, seemingly shy, but Locus caught the glitter of her eyes following him under chopped, dirty blonde bangs as he strode inside.

He tried to put her out of his mind, but he had the nagging suspicion that the bruise on her face was a direct result of his injuring her wrist. It probably wasn’t the only one she was sporting, either. If it looked this fresh after a week … 

The constantly falling sensation in his gut refused to leave as he wound through the store, gathering what few supplies he needed to survive a bit longer. Somehow he managed to stay civil to the people around him, despite the feeling of being watched crawling up his spine.

He hesitated when he got to the deli.

Twenty minutes later, when he walked by the girl again, he dropped a few dollars and a sandwich in her bowl, unsurprised to find it did nothing to ease the guilt gnawing at him.

He barely made it fifty feet before he had to thwart another pickpocket. At least he managed not to injure this one.

 

* * *

 

Locus sat on the sagging edge of his bed, shoulders hunched forward. The noise of the city filtered through his window and tried to draw his attention. He ignored it in favor of the curved bar of metal in his hands. The grooves and ridges of alien ornamentation caught at his fingers as he turned it over to face towards him.

It would be so easy to –

No. Not yet, anyway. He’d made an oath. To himself, and more importantly, to the people he’d killed, the ones who’d died trusting his leadership, and the ones who managed to survive in spite of him. He owed them all so much more than his quick death.

But it was going so _slowly_. Almost all the ships that came through were freighters headed in the _wrong_ direction, on circuits to the outer worlds. The rest … weren’t viable options. The UNSC was finally shifting resources back to Colonial Administration, now that the War was over, but almost every planet that survived needed stabilizing and rebuilding.

Chorus had still been a relatively small colony when they’d been abandoned, and the focus right now was on the older, larger colonies. Alien technology just wasn’t the draw it once was, now that the War was over and the communication lines were open.

The war-torn colony wasn’t going to see any aid anytime soon, despite Epsilon’s impassioned plea. Their damage was “self-inflicted,” in the eyes of the bean-counters, and lower priority than those hit by the War. At best, they’d see a few ships sent to track down Hargrove and _Staff of Charon_ , a quick check-in, and empty platitudes about help coming “soon.” 

Even if the UNSC turned its eye to Chorus, that help would likely be only enough to keep them stable until other, more _important_ planets were taken care of. There would be no serious rebuilding for a _long_ time, and what they did get was unlikely to be tailored to their needs.

 _Locus_ knew what Chorus needed. Doyle may have been lacking as a military commander, but he had been an excellent planner, and he’d never lost hope of their civil war ending. He’d always kept an eye towards what they would need when the dust settled, from emergency supplies for the immediate aftermath to more long-term needs, like farming supplies and construction equipment to rebuild their self-sufficiency. Even toying with ways to coax new settlers, especially from professions they would desperately need.

Locus still had the last version of those plans, from before the con was revealed. They were … comprehensive, to say the least. Even if he emptied every nest egg he could lay hands on, like he planned, it wouldn’t be anywhere near enough.

But it would be a start.

He would probably have to contract a direct, private shipment, and send it anonymously. It would eat a larger chunk of his balance than he was happy sacrificing, but he couldn’t be sure they would accept _anything_ from him, no matter how badly needed.

With a sigh, he shoved the sword hilt back into a slit in the mattress, up near the head. He should probably lock it up with the rest of his weapons and his armor, but going completely unarmed put that _itch_ between his shoulderblades. As it was, most days he had to settle for keeping Felix’s last throwing knife tucked into his boot. It wasn’t much, but it was better than nothing.

 

* * *

 

Within the month, Locus was ready to climb the walls. Somehow he’d managed to attract the attention of three of the little brats, and they would. Not. Stop. Stalking him. There wasn’t a single route he could take between the apartment and the Docks that wouldn’t see at least one of them in his path.

He’d been able to dodge them easily enough, once he’d memorized their faces. The two boys had to be brothers, if not twins – it was hard to tell under the dirt that children always seemed to attract, no matter their circumstances. The girl was a bit sneakier, but not enough to throw him off. At _best_ they were all around 12 years old, with all the reckless confidence that brought with it.

They might be clever enough to fool civilian marks, but Locus had trained himself to spot active camouflage. As long as he kept his wits about him, they didn’t stand a chance of actually succeeding.

So far, at least, they hadn’t figured out which building he lived in, only the general area. Locus wasn’t planning on that luck holding. He became even more obsessive about checking all the locks whenever he left or returned. Having a ground floor apartment meant even a child could reach his windows, if they were ambitious enough.

He wasn’t sure if they were trying to wear him down into making a mistake, or if this had become a game to them. They seemed to take his ability to spot them as a personal challenge. 

His biggest worry was they’d enlist a fourth member he didn’t recognize and it would all go to hell. None of them would find it amusing when he finally snapped.

In his more despairing moments, he thought he’d never find a ship to take him off-world, and he’d be stuck dodging suicidal children forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, welcome to _this_ wild ride. Apparently being dead isn't enough to get Felix to shut up, so we all get to enjoy his running commentary as imagined by Locus. Good examples vs horrible warnings ...


	2. II. “Audenta fortuna iuvat.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Fortune favors the bold.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, just as a heads up, my Latin is 10+ years rusty, so in true Red vs Blue fashion, I'm relying on the internet for these titles, and Google translate to make sure they're not too far off the mark. S'alright? S'alright.

It was almost becoming a nightly ritual. Lie down. Try to sleep. Toss and turn for a few hours before finally dozing off. Wake with heart pounding from nightmares he can’t quite remember. Stare at his reflection as he fights to remember where he is. Lie back down and stare at the ceiling until it’s time to get up and face another day of dull, meaningless work.

Refuse to allow himself to miss Felix’s presence at his side.

Locus sighed as he shoved his feet into his boots, tightening the laces against another day of picking up other’s slack. He pulled the frayed cuffs of his thrift store jeans over them, debating picking up a few more changes of clothes and deliberately ignoring the silence in the room.

Monsters didn’t deserve to mourn or be mourned.

He wouldn’t admit it out loud, but avoiding his little trio of pickpockets at least broke the monotony and helped keep him awake. He had to pay more attention to his surroundings than he had been, if only to see if any of them would make an attempt on any given day. If he let them surprise him again, he may not be able to check himself before it was too late. And if _children_ could sneak up on him, so could someone far more dangerous to his plans. He’d become far too complacent.

Checking the shipping schedules as he choked down breakfast was almost automatic at this point. Finding them to be completely useless was, as well. The datapad clattered against the cheap wooden table when he dropped it in disgust. The water splashing in the sink echoed too loudly as he cleaned up, competing with the ticking clock and the world waking up outside.

A few birds landed on the windowsill over the sink. They didn’t look quite like sparrows, but he supposed they still had when the planet was first settled. He watched them for a few moments as they alternately pecked at the stone and watched him back.

For a moment, just a moment, he wished he could abandon everything and spend the rest of his limited days with no more cares than they had.

Locus sighed and turned away, startling the birds into flight. He noted his supplies were running low; he was going to have to make another stop soon. As it was, he needed to find some more concealer. Getting this far only to be recognized because he forgot to hide his scars would be embarrassing.

He shrugged into the worn leather jacket, checked all the locks one more time, and headed out.

 

* * *

 

Locus didn’t bother sitting with the other workers on break, most days. He didn’t _avoid_ them, exactly, but if the weather was nice enough to eat at the picnic tables outside, he did. He was far from the only one, but while everyone else clustered around the same few tables, he stayed a little off to the side.

His preferred spot was close enough to overhear anything of interest, but separate enough that most people didn’t bother trying to include him in their conversations. When they did, he tried to be non-committal without being rude; he still had to work with these people for the foreseeable future.

Mostly he used his data pad as a half-shield, checking incoming and outgoing schedules, tracking prices and news, and running numbers until they started to swim in front of his eyes.

It was an exhausting line to walk most days – keeping to himself without alienating everyone. He wondered how Felix had always managed it so effortlessly, charming anyone he chose in the process.

He was distracted from his daily exercise in futility by a sudden shift in the flow of conversation. “What the fuck?” someone exclaimed; it sounded like Silvano. “What the hell is a _kid_ doing in here?”

Locus closed his eyes briefly, offering up an already hopeless prayer that this wasn’t what he thought it was.

When he opened his eyes, he saw that his prayer was half-answered. She wasn’t one of the three children he’d been evading, but if she wasn’t related to the girl, he’d eat his shirt. The same brown-blonde hair, the same eyes, even if she had enough green in them to tilt them towards hazel. This one couldn’t be much more than five or six years old. She was dressed _slightly_ better than the other girl was the last time he saw her, but that didn’t mean much; mostly, it meant fewer patches.

“Hello,” she said, looking up at him. Locus stared at her in disbelief.

“I don’t have any money on me,” he answered quietly; he made sure to carry as little as possible, now. Everyone was staring at them. The whispering was starting to make his skin crawl.

She tilted her head, studying him from head to toe and back. “You have an apple.”

He blinked. She took his silence as permission, and climbed up on the bench next to him. Once she was settled, she folded her hands in her lap, smiling at him.

Locus weighed his options. Giving her the fruit could only lead to trouble if she took it as encouragement, but it _was_ only an apple, and she looked almost as hungry as her … sister? Cousin? It didn’t really matter in the end, he supposed.

He didn’t believe in karma, or anything along that vein, but at the same time, he didn’t think driving her off would help his chances, either. People tended to remember those who were cruel to children more than those who weren’t. He pulled the apple closer and cut it into pieces on a napkin for her.

She swung her legs and hummed as she watched him. “My name’s Estelle.”

“Sam.” He kicked himself slightly at his curt tone; he might not want her to believe he was friendly, but there was no need to draw attention if she started crying.

He slid the napkin with its slices over to her. “Thank you, Sam,” she said, smiling up at him.

“You’re welcome,” he answered.

By the time lunch was over, he learned that she was five, the other girl was her sister, age thirteen, named “Ant-on-ett-a but we all call her Ant,” and the two boys were indeed twins, though born on different days, “which is silly but they say so,” and _yes_ , they were stalking Locus, because he was one of the few people to catch them once, and definitely the first person to _keep_ avoiding them.

He was also the only one to do any of that _and_ offer them any food.

Locus felt his stomach sinking in despair as he listened to all of this. They weren’t going to give up until he let one of them succeed. Even then, they might not stop if they considered it some sort of one-upmanship. If he let one successfully con him, he might have to let them all, and that would involve deliberately stomping on the instincts that had saved his life so many times in the past. He didn’t know if he could do it.

Estelle finished her apple slices, wiped her hands and mouth clean, and thanked him again before she left. Locus watched her from the corner of his eye; her manners were far prettier than living on the street would suggest.

It was too much to hope that the others would let this slide without comment. Gossip was the primary form of entertainment on the Docks, after all. Sure enough –

“Hey, Gates!” Aubin called from two tables over. “Who’s the kid? You got someone you ain’t telling us about?” The rest of the team started laughing, making more and more crude suggestions as to what her mother would have to look like to create such a comparatively fair child.

Locus just shrugged as he stood. “Never saw her before in my life.” He grabbed his gear for the rest of his shift. “But apparently she likes apples.” He managed not to smirk at their dumbfounded looks until his back was to them.

He didn’t see any of the kids as he left that day. Whether they were keeping a low profile after Estelle’s little visit, or they had finally given up after all, he wasn’t sure.

He did, however, add a bag of apples when he stopped for groceries later. It never hurt to be prepared.

 

 

* * *

 

Four days later, one of the twins finally made a move.

Locus gave the boy credit for improving his stealth. It wasn’t enough to _actually_ fool him, but it was better than when this whole mess had started.

He casually turned down a side street, leaving the main behind him. He kept his eyes peeled for the others, including Estelle. Locus wasn’t sure if she was _capable_ of stealth after her bold-as-brass approach a few days ago, but at this point? He wouldn’t be surprised.

When he saw the boy tailing him was blocked by a pair of chattering window shoppers, Locus stepped into the alcove of the nearest door and waited.

It was the oddest trap he ever had memory of laying. But when he reached out and clapped the boy on the shoulder, and was rewarded with a startled oath straight out of his army days, Locus had to bite his cheek to keep from laughing.

“You’re getting better,” he remarked.

The boy stopped trying to pull away, the fear clouding his eyes giving way to a wary surprise. “... what?”

Locus couldn’t quite keep his lips from twitching that time. “You’re getting better,” he repeated. “You’re still not using the terrain fully to your advantage, and you’re treating this as a competition instead of supporting each other. Still, you _are_ improving.”

He let go, turning to open the door to the little hole-in-the-wall restaurant he’d been waiting in front of. Looking back over his shoulder, he caught the boy trying to edge away. “Well? Are you going to come in or not?”

Twenty minutes later, after a tense moment where the owner nearly threw the boy – Allan – out before Locus convinced her that the child was with him, they exited with one of the most bizarre hybrid foods Locus had ever encountered: a mix of Thai and Italian that somehow _worked_. He’d discovered it by accident when Aubin had decided to surprise everyone and order take-out last week.

Allan clutched his box to his chest, stunned, as he followed Locus down the street to a bench. The inside of Locus’ cheek was nearly bleeding as he tried to keep from laughing. He hadn’t been this entertained in a long time.

Locus didn’t see any reason to demonstrate that Allan’s wary perch at the end of the bench wasn’t as out of reach as he thought. The boy was skittish enough as it was, and judging from the way he was inhaling his food, it wasn’t too surprising.

Locus ate his own lunch at a more leisurely pace, letting the silence settle between them. He purchased more than he needed anyway, to save himself the effort of making something tomorrow. He glanced over and noticed that Allan had stopped eating halfway through and was now fiddling with the box.

“Is something wrong?” He considered that maybe the mix of spices was a bit much for a child. He should have thought of that sooner, and picked somewhere else.

The boy jumped slightly. “N-no, it’s good! It’s just–” He bit his lip. “Can-I-take-the-rest-back-with-me?” he blurted.

Locus blinked a few times, peeling apart the rushed syllables. Allan started to fidget. “It’s your lunch,” he said finally. “You can do what you want with it. I’d prefer if you didn’t throw it out, however.” He’d been on short rations often enough to never take food for granted anymore; _wasting_ it bothered him in a way he couldn’t explain.

“No, no! I want to know if I could give some to …” He trailed off.

“To your brother?” Locus finished.

Allan flushed and looked down. “Estelle told you.”

Locus couldn’t help chuckling a little that time. “She is very … bold.” He hoped she hadn’t gotten into any trouble after her little stunt at the Docks. The crew were still trying to figure out how she’d made it into the break area unnoticed. At her size, Locus could easily imagine half a dozen ways she could have snuck in or walked by unnoticed if she chose; it was _not_ the best run operation. He wasn’t sure why he didn’t speak up; he was more concerned she would have received the same treatment as her sister when she returned home.

It would probably be for the best if the boys didn’t try to follow her example. Never mind they’d be more likely to be caught; he’d _never_ convince the crew they weren’t blood relations.

Allan snorted. “She’s a pain in the butt, you mean. She’s lucky we all love her. Ant was convinced she’d … ruined … everything …” He trailed off again, flushing as he remembered who he was talking to.

It sounded like she was fine. Locus eyed him critically. “To be honest, you all need more practice. If you were serious, you’d be working together instead of against each other. A team can overcome almost any one person, with the right training.”

His own words faded as he remembered a multi-colored band of misfits taking down a single, highly-trained soldier.

_Nice to be remembered once in a while._

Allan shifted a little in his seat. “Are you … are you a soldier?”

Locus blinked a few times as he refocused on the present. “I was, once,” he said slowly. He couldn’t claim that label anymore, after what he had done. “Why?”

“Some of the guys you see around here, they get that look. Like they’re not really here for a moment.” The boy shrugged. “Thought maybe you were one, too, since you keep avoiding us so well.”

Locus looked away, suddenly uncomfortable. “It was a long time ago.” He stood and shoved the rest of his food into Allan’s hands. “Here. Split this among the lot of you.”

He strode away, shoulders tensed against the scope he _knew_ wasn’t tracking him, but could feel anyway.

 

* * *

 

Locus rested his elbows on the table and buried his head in his hands. The ticking of the cheap plastic clock was almost unnaturally loud in the silence of the kitchen. He should have replaced it with a more accurate – and, more importantly, _silent_ – digital one when he’d moved in, but he couldn’t be bothered. Now it was a constant irritant, plucking at his nerves.

The schedules had been adjusted _again_. The one ship that might have gotten him off this rock and headed in the right direction had been diverted for “emergency relief.” Every other ship was headed in the absolute _wrong_ direction. There wasn’t another inward-bound one for months, and it currently boasted a full crew.

With a bit of luck, if would need a few new faces by the time it arrived, and he could hire on for a little while. At least until the next port. He wasn’t desperate enough to try booking freighter passage yet; people who did that were still uncommon enough that they got talked about.

He tapped the screen and refreshed it, hoping that he’d get lucky, and the change was a temporary glitch.

The schedule stubbornly remained unchanged.

Locus wasn’t the lucky one, anyway.

_You’re an idiot._

“Shut up,” he mumbled. He squashed the wish that it was actually Felix’s voice speaking, and not just his own imagination. It was better that Felix was dead. It was better for everyone. He _knew_ this.

But he hadn’t had to run anything completely alone for a long time. Most of his adult life, when he thought about it. Even when they’d been with the separate armies on Chorus, they’d still been coordinating with each other. They’d _always_ had each other’s backs.

_Well,_ almost _always, anyway._

Locus swallowed around the lump in his throat. Sentiment was foolish. Especially for people like _them._

He _knew_ Felix had been just as much of a monster as he was, but … he _missed_ him. He missed having someone to watch his back, help shoulder the load, or just complain to when it all inevitably hit the fan.

Granted, _Felix_ was more likely to be doing the complaining than the listening. And the odds that he would willingly go along with Locus’ hare-brained scheme to try to atone, let alone _help_ him … well, he supposed stranger things had to have happened at some point, but Locus doubted it.

It didn’t change anything. Felix was dead. Locus had created and shed any number of identities to muddy the trail, and now he was stuck on a struggling crossroads planet, trying to keep his head down until Fortune finally noticed him and helped him get to the central worlds.

The local datastructure was laughably porous, allowing him to easily create another identity and accounts to match, enough to hold him until he’d located a professional and had a better ID made. Even if he’d obviously been overtired and not thinking clearly when he’d given “his” name.

Unfortunately, that same fragility made it useless for actually reaching the accounts he needed. The major interplanetaries that had satellite offices here also had their own, private networks; _those_ would have been secure enough. But the locals had no hope of accessing them, let alone itinerant laborers such as himself.

_Sucks to be you._

Locus sighed and pushed away from the table. He wished he hadn’t given Allan the rest of his lunch yesterday; he was finding it harder and harder to muster up the energy to both make a meal _and_ eat it. But at the same time, he couldn’t regret it. He’d ruined enough lives already that he couldn’t justify even such petty little things. He wasn’t worth it.

_You are such a fucking sap, sometimes._

Even remembering what he was like at the end, Locus still couldn’t put much venom into Felix’s words. It sounded more exasperated than insulting. He wondered how long it would take until he started forgetting him entirely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think you can all see where this path is going. Too bad Locus is so focused on his task that he doesn't.
> 
> And here we see the first piece from my lovely partner on this journey, [vlasdygoth](http://vlasdygoth.tumblr.com/). Locus has no clue what he's about to get into XD


	3. III. "Docendo discimus."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"By teaching, we learn."_

It took another week, but it seemed his advice had sunk in. 

Locus worked to keep his expression clear and his shoulders relaxed, but he wanted to grin. The twins had teamed up and were slipping through the weekend crowd behind him, wearing nearly identical outfits and doing their best to not be seen at the same time.

He could see half a dozen ways to elude them offhand, even if they had one or both girls waiting ahead. Still, they were trying. It only seemed fair to reward them.

It hadn’t been easy for him to learn how to go unnoticed at his size. It was, however, a useful skill, even now. Especially now. He took advantage of a knot in the flow of people around him to slip into one of the diners scattered up and down the street semi-affectionately dubbed “Restaurant Row”.

The Misty Moonlight boasted a “retro-futuristic” theme, which meant the decor looked like bad sci-fi from before humans had actually made it off Earth. Still, he supposed the mix of chrome and bright neon lights had to appeal to _someone_ ; it certainly didn’t appeal to him. If it wasn’t for the fact that they made the best cheesesteak sandwiches Locus had ever had, he wouldn’t have set foot in here twice.

He ordered sandwiches for five, to go, and a coffee, then settled in to watch out one of the windows while he waited. 

The boys were improving, yes, but they were still children. It didn’t take long before he spotted them wandering back and forth, trying to figure out where they lost him. He gave them until his order was called, then finished his coffee.

The annoyance on the waitress’s face surprised him. “You watch your wallet out there,” she said, nodding at the door. “We got a pest problem.”

Locus couldn’t help the snort. Pests, indeed. “I think I’ll manage,” he replied. “Thank you, though.” He waited until the boys passed by again, then stepped out and started tailing them.

It took a lot more effort than he expected not to laugh at the dismay on Allan’s face when he turned back to talk to his brother, and spotted Locus strolling along. They shared a glance, then slowed until he caught up.

“Better,” he said, passing between them, “but two-on-one still leaves you at a disadvantage against someone better trained.” He did allow himself a small smile as they fell in beside him. He also ignored them trying to confuse him by swapping positions behind him as they did. They still weren’t paying enough attention to their surroundings to be aware of their reflections in the windows they passed, and he wasn’t going to be the one to tell them. This time.

“So what do _you_ suggest?” grumbled the one on his right. Locus smirked, and turned slightly to him. 

“More backup, for one thing, Allan. You’re good enough to con the average civilian on your own – don’t even bother, Edgar –” the boy snatched his hand back from Locus’ jacket “– but you need to be both more subtle and more cautious. You never know who’s spent years fighting for their life.” His face clouded slightly as he remembered how this whole mess started.

They stopped, gaping at him. He turned back. “It’s rude to block the sidewalk.” Gesturing slightly with the bag, he added, “If you feel the need to stop, over there seems better.”

 

* * *

 

Locus felt slightly more cheerful as he locked the door behind him. The boys were _convinced_ he was guessing to tell them apart. He had seen no reason to enlighten them yet. They were intelligent and clever, if slightly reckless. Keeping them guessing would keep them wary.

But they were also young, and more importantly, willing to learn. Hopefully, he could teach them a little more caution while he waited for a ship. Enough to keep them alive, anyway. Staying out of trouble was probably more than he had any right to hope for. He busied himself with putting his sandwich in the fridge for tomorrow, and getting out what he’d need later for dinner. 

He supposed he shouldn’t be encouraging them, but they were living on the streets, stealing to survive. The best he could do was teach them how not to get injured or caught. If he could keep squads of soldiers alive in the middle of the War, a handful of children during peacetime should be relatively easy.

_Abandon hope, all ye who enter._

“Quiet.”

He ignored the ghost of a snicker. That, at least, was still familiar.

 

* * *

 

The downside to his attention to the twins, one he hadn’t expected but should have, was that Antoinetta took umbrage at being left out. He’d seen her tailing him several times, but she never approached. Locus couldn’t really blame her. After all, they got hot meals for their attempts, and hers earned her a sprained wrist.

_Once bitten…_

He’d buy for her, too, if she’d approach him, but so far she’d stuck to merely following. He wasn’t sure if she was afraid, or just watching the boys to see what did or did not work.

He learned a little more when Estelle decided to join him for lunch again.

This time, it was pouring, so everyone crammed inside the too-small breakroom. He always chose the spot in the far corner; it gave him the best view of the of the doors and the room. It was also one of the last seats claimed, since it was farthest from the screens and the fridge.

“What the fuck?”

“How the hell–?”

Locus looked up at the exclamations, unsurprised to see Estelle climbing up next to him. She was barely even damp.

“Hello!” she said brightly.

“Hello. How did you get in here?” Getting onto the Docks wouldn’t be exceptionally difficult, at her size. Getting into the employee-only areas would require a little more effort. He could think of half a dozen people, however, who would let a child sucker them into letting her inside to warm up. He was curious if she would tell.

She hummed for a moment and thought. “Fairies,” she said finally.

Locus shook his head, chuckling. He hadn’t honestly expected her to give up her secrets so easily, or publicly. It was very obvious she wasn’t supposed to be here, even if no one wanted to be the one to throw her out. He offered her another pile of apple slices, along with some peanut butter and a bottle of water.

They ate silently, ignoring the stares and whispers of his coworkers. Eventually, when the two of them offered no more entertainment for the crowd, everyone turned back to each other and the TV.

Conversation slowly picked back up around them. Estelle used the noise to finally speak.

“Ant’s mad,” she murmured. 

He tilted his head. “Oh?”

Estelle pursed her lips, trying to find the words. “You keep buying lunch for Eddy and Ally, but when she tried, you hurt her.”

He flinched slightly. Most people wouldn’t have noticed, but she did; the child was far too observant. “I … should not have done that. I wasn’t paying attention, and I didn’t react well,” he answered, equally quietly. “If she’s willing to accept, I would apologize.” He considered her words again. “Are they … are they not sharing the food I send with them?”

Estelle scraped the last of the peanut butter from her cup. “They share. We’re their sisters now. But Ant’s still mad she got hurt and they didn’t.”

Locus sighed. “If one of them had tried first, it likely would have happened to them. I wasn’t thinking clearly, and I acted on instinct. I know that doesn’t make it right, but that’s why.” He thought back to when he had spotted her begging. “Is she alright?”

“She’s fine. Just mad.” She kicked her legs and thought. “Are you going to hurt her again?”

He rubbed the back of his neck uncomfortably. “I don’t plan to. I don’t want to.”

She nodded. “Okay.” And that, apparently, was that.

The rest of the crew ribbed him for days about “feeding a stray,” and several of them still wondered if there were any blood relations between the two of them.

He took it quietly, and with a trace of humor. They weren’t far off, after all, with the “feeding strays” idea, and he could see the ridiculousness of the situation. It was probably for the best they didn’t know about the other three; he’d never live that down.

Still, that was twice she’d visited, and no one was admitting to knowing how she got in or out either time. Locus had his suspicions, but he kept quiet, even when he and Aubin were both called to the upper offices to “discuss” the situation.

He did his best not to draw any more attention to himself during _that_ ordeal. He feigned ignorance well enough; Aubin pointed out he’d had no reason to believe she wasn’t the child of an employee, given that she was wandering around with impunity. He knew she didn’t believe it herself, but she still backed him.

Hopefully, her support was enough to keep him off anyone’s radar any more than he already was. As long as he was just another transient waiting for the right ship, no one paid him any more or less attention than the other drifters. He needed to keep it that way.

 

* * *

 

Locus didn’t know if it was the fact that she was older and theoretically wiser, that his catching her had ended so badly, or something else entirely, but Antoinetta was definitely more cautious than the boys.

Before, it had kept her from trying to sneak up on him like they did, despite seeing how they were benefitting. Now, it meant she actually got a good deal closer than they had managed to date. Not enough to be successful, but enough to mildly impress him.

When he finally spotted her working her way closer, he stopped at a tiny little “park” set back from the road. Really, it wasn’t more than a pair of benches and a few half-barrel planters set in the mouth of a blocked alley a few blocks from his own building.

Locs sat at one of the benches, noting that one of the slats on the back was going to need replacing, and making a bet with himself whether or not he’d finally be dragooned into helping. Hopefully Ms. Obua, the woman who maintained them, would find someone else, first. He’d managed to avoid being conscripted the few times he’d seen her, but she was not shy about demanding help from those unlucky enough to catch her notice, and she had enough sheer presence to usually get it.

After a few minutes of waiting, Antoinetta sat down on the bench opposite him. Now that she was here, he found it almost impossible to look her in the eye. He reached out and brushed his fingertips over the flowers, just to have something to do.

_Coward._

“I’m sorry.” It was incredible, how difficult it was to say those two small words, despite the necessity. He didn’t look up from the flowers. He didn’t want to see the judgement in her eyes. If he couldn’t face a single girl he didn’t even know, how could he ever manage to atone for Chorus?

She didn’t say anything for a while. She just watched as he slowly plucked dead blossoms and dropped them on the soil. When he ran out of excuses, he finally looked up and met her gaze.

She looked a great deal better than the last time he had seen her this close. There was no trace of the bruising he’d first seen, or any other injuries. Whatever trouble she’d received in because of him, it seemed to be in the past. A little of the tension in his shoulders unknotted at that.

“Is that why you’ve been sending food back?” she finally asked.

Locus grimaced. “Partly. It’s … It shouldn’t have gone that way. I should have had better control.”

She nodded and chewed her lip, thinking. Eventually, she squared her shoulders and looked him in the eye. “So, what are we having for lunch today?”

His lips twitched. “Is there anything you’d prefer?”

 

* * *

 

It became almost a game after that. One or more of them would try to track him as he went about his days. Depending on how much effort they put in, he would let them get closer before he “spotted” them. They never managed to fool him, but he kept buying enough for all four of them anyway. He had few enough expenses, and even an itinerant fill-in such as himself made more than enough.

_You can’t fix everything we’ve done by taking in strays._

“I know.” Locus folded the now-clean jackets he’d purchased and slid them into the cheap duffel, zipping it closed. Seeing Edgar out last week in the cold had bothered him in a way he didn’t want to examine. It felt a little like the times he and Felix had had to fight tooth and claw to make sure they and their teams were properly equipped, both during and after the War.

Locus had focused on mission effectiveness. Felix had been more concerned with their own survival. Either way, they’d often had to thwart some frankly ridiculous attempts to cut corners. 

_Hey, we had a reputation to maintain._

And people didn’t sign on to teams that had a reputation for high casualty rates.

He was probably being a fool. They might not be getting as much food as they should, but these kids seemed street-wise enough. They were probably pulling a Felix-worthy con on him. Odds were, they had a nice, snug little spot to hole up in, and the worn clothes were just for show. 

Still, he’d rather be taken for a fool now, than not. He’d walked too far down that road already and he didn’t like who he’d found. There was no way he could ever go back, but he could refuse to go any farther. He could do this much.

_Ugh. Such a fucking sap._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, there's no "probably" about it. He's definitely a fool.


	4. IV. "Cui bono?"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Who benefits?"_

Just as Locus thought he had finally gotten a handle on the situation, fate decided to intervene.

“You can’t have them.”

Locus looked up from his coffee and blinked, trying to make sight and sound match up. The teenager who had marched up to his table was dolled up for a night on the town, despite the early hour, but her tone and posture were more suited to an impending street brawl. 

_Come back in a few years, sweetheart._

“I don’t follow,” Locus said mildly, deliberately shoving aside his annoyance. There was only one “them” he could think she was referring to.

“I said, ‘You can’t have them.’ I have spent too long trying to keep them alive.” She flicked her red-gold hair over her shoulder and folded her arms. “So you can just fuck off.”

Heads were starting to turn and one of the waitresses was veering towards them, no doubt to throw the girl out. Locus sighed and waved her off. There was no way this _wasn’t_ going to end poorly; the best he could hope for was not to create any _more_ of a scene. He nudged the chair opposite him with his foot.

“I’m trying to keep them alive as well. So either sit down and talk rationally, or turn around and walk away,” he growled.

She blanched. In her indignation, she hadn’t quite registered the size difference. Locus took a bit of vindictive pleasure watching her mask crack slightly before she pulled herself together. She fumed visibly for a moment, before yanking out the chair he’d indicated.

It was interesting, watching her shift back to a more haughty air as she sat. As if she was copying someone who was far more used to giving orders and seeing them obeyed, but she wasn’t sure of it herself.

 _Amateur_.

Maybe. Maybe Locus was just accustomed to keeping up with Felix’s acts, and everyone else looked rough in comparison. 

Locus almost smirked at her, but he caught a glimpse of the twins through the window behind her; he’d been letting them hunt him all morning, since it was his day off. They offered him shrugs and embarrassed grins before melting back into the crowd.

She squared her shoulders, chin going up presumably so she could glare down her nose at him. If she hadn’t been half his size, he supposed some people would find her intimidating. Some people probably did anyway. As it was, he just filed her somewhere between “annoying” and “amusing.” But if she was the one who had beaten Ant, there was going to be an _issue._

Just as she opened her mouth to try and dress him down, he cut her off. “Sam,” he said, lifting his mug in a tiny salute. He took a sip to avoid laughing at her expression, and the ghost of a snort he heard. Felix may have been the talker of the two of them, but Locus was not unaware how to control a negotiation.

Her jaw snapped shut. Locus let the silence stretch out. 

“Madelyn,” she said, finally.

“Are you the one responsible for Antoinetta’s bruises some weeks back?” He could feel his temper rising at the memory and leashed it back.

“ _I_ have never raised a hand to her,” she replied. She, at least, had herself back under control for the moment.

“That was an accident,” Locus snapped. Triumph flared in her eyes. “I have apologized to her and she accepted,” he continued more evenly.

Madelyn snorted inelegantly. “It’s amazing what people will overlook when you feed them regularly.”

He regarded her coldly; _that_ was not helping paint a better picture of her. “Do you speak from experience?”

“You have no idea.”

He almost snapped at her again, but something in her tone, her posture, sat oddly with him. It wasn’t anything he could put his finger on immediately, so he sat back and sipped his coffee, studying her.

The clothing and makeup he had barely spared a glance for before, he now recognized as a carefully crafted costume. One designed to distract as easily as the twins used their identical appearances. After her initial outburst, she had gradually shifted to something more … arrogant. As if she was used to having people jump when she told them to.

Or, perhaps more accurately, she was mimicking someone who was, in an attempt to cover something else.

“How long have you been taking care of them?” he asked. He watched, carefully, trying to pin down what she was hiding.

_You suck at this, you know._

It was her turn to blink in confusion at _his_ words. “A while,” she answered cautiously.

He nodded. “Are you objecting to the fact that they aren’t looking solely to you for support?” Territorial? No, that wasn’t right … 

She stiffened. “You would be far from the first to lure someone in with a few scraps of kindness.” Well, _that_ indignation sounded genuine. Defensive? Not quite …

Locus shook his head. “I have no intention of luring anyone anywhere. But if they’re going to insist on trying to ambush me, I’m going to keep teaching them how to do it right.” He almost stumbled over the words, but they _did_ accurately describe what he was doing.

“And the food? The clothes?” she pressed.

Protective. She was _worried_ about them. Worried enough to confront someone several times her size. He wondered if she’d be so brave if she could see his scars, if she knew a fraction of his past. 

He was starting to suspect she would. He didn’t know what the others had been telling her, but whatever it was, she was remarkably unafraid. Or, perhaps “unafraid” was the wrong term. She was cautious, yes, but she wasn’t willing to run.

He looked down. “I’ve seen death by malnutrition and exposure. They are … not easy ways to go.” An understatement.

She looked at him oddly. Reassessing him. Locus stared at the remains of his coffee, letting the silence stretch.

“You’re serious,” she said finally. “That’s actually your reason.”

He shrugged, suddenly very uncomfortable with the conversation. It wasn’t his _only_ reason, but he shied away from naming anything else. “Do you want me to stop?” He was sure how they would take it, especially Estelle, if she said, “yes.” He still wasn’t exactly sure how the girl was getting into restricted areas.

Madelyn bit her lip, unsure again. She was probably thinking along the same lines he was. He felt a brief twinge of sympathy; at least he had experience riding herd on a fractious group.

 _“Can_ I stop you?” she asked bitterly.

Locus snorted. She should be more concerned about stopping _them._ “I don’t go looking for them,” he pointed out. “If they avoid me, I won’t seek them out.”

She was clearly unhappy with that answer, even as she tilted her head in acknowledgement. What could she do, though? The balance of power was clearly tilted in his favor. Locus watched from the corner of his eye as she swept past him and out of the diner, the waitress from before glaring daggers at her back.

_Well. Things are certainly getting interesting._

He refrained from snorting again. “Boring” would be preferable right about now.

 

* * *

 

Locus sat on the edge of the bed, head in his hands. He had to get up. He had to get moving. He _knew_ this. But he was so damned _exhausted._ He pressed his fingers to his temples and willed his headache to go away.

He just wanted to get this all over and done with. He had an objective. He needed to complete it.

After that, it didn’t matter what happened to him. 

But nothing was working out. Any slightly useful ship was being redirected or delayed. The local datastructure was still horrible. He couldn’t get through the night without waking up at least once, covered in sweat and gasping for breath.

If he didn’t know better, he’d swear the universe was actively working against him.

The only bright spots these past weeks were the times the children were trying to catch him – or in Estelle’s case, waltzing up and inviting herself to lunch. At least he’d managed to convince her not to join him on the Docks anymore. 

They had yet to come anywhere close to successfully sneaking up on him, but they were having fun. It had become so common for them to trail him into the different places on Restaurant Row that they no longer got dirty looks from most of the employees. 

Madelyn had even joined him for breakfast a few times, although she preferred tea to Locus’ paint thinner pretending to be coffee. Whether it was to keep an eye on him, learn more about him, or just stew over the fact that the younger ones weren’t listening to her, he wasn’t sure. She reminded him most strongly of a stray cat, circling and hissing at imagined threats to her kittens, but unsure how to deal with them.

As it became clear _Locus_ wasn’t a threat to them, she’d gradually warmed to him. He didn’t think he’d have thawed so quickly in her position, but he also wasn’t struggling to play responsible adult while still effectively a child himself. The stories – and the food – the younger ones had no doubt been bringing back for the past few months probably hadn’t hurt, either. Especially once Locus had started adding one more to his orders.

They had spent one morning commiserating over trying to keep the other four in line, while said children had run around the tiny excuse for a local playground, bundled against an unseasonable chill. Locus had reminded himself _again_ to find a heavier coat for himself.

“Ant’s easy. If she has the time –” Madelyn smiled a little wryly at the euphemism “– she’s happy to curl up in a corner with whatever we can convince the library to get from its better branches. Estelle’s happy as long as there are no other kids dropped off and hogging the puzzles. The boys …”

She’d sighed and shaken her head. “They prefer things that are a little more hands-on. Especially if it explodes or makes a mess.”

Locus’ wince had been genuine. “I imagine they don’t get many opportunities.”

“Not as many as they’d like, anyway. Once a month there’s some sort of Kids’ Science Program, mostly because it’s in _all_ the libraries, but …” She’d shrugged helplessly.

He’d nodded in understanding. Down here, it would be underfunded at best. As it was he suspected the only reason the library was still open was it acted as more of a daycare for the neighborhood than anything else.

He had to give her credit; with almost no resources and no support, she still had kept the children comparatively healthy. More than that, unlike others would in her position, she actively discourage them from causing any more trouble than necessary. He strongly suspected their living situation was better than they implied, but not by much.

A very interesting puzzle. One Locus was determined to _not_ try to solve.

He deliberately avoided thinking about _why_ Madelyn had been so suspicious of him at first. She had neatly avoided talking about their pasts or asking about his, and he wasn’t going to push. He was _not_ getting involved.

_Beyond the pouncing lessons, anyway._

To be fair, Locus was enjoying the game as well. They had no chance of catching him, but they still kept trying. Every time he turned the ambush on them, or just waited for them to notice _he_ was tailing _them_ , they just got more determined. It put him in mind of videos of lions or wolves teaching their cubs with mock-hunts.

He smiled a little at that; the thought of putting children into _his_ care was absurd.

_No fucking shit._

Locus forced himself to his feet. Exhausted or not, he had to stop wool-gathering. He needed the shifts until he knew exactly when he was getting out of here. Even if it meant the notoriety of buying passage.

 

* * *

 

He wasn’t much more awake by the end of his shift, so he decided to stop at a little coffee shop a few blocks away, one that could actually brew a _decent_ cup of coffee. There was no sign over the door, only an old-fashioned shingle with a speckled hen on it, a theme that was continued inside. Locus ordered the strongest coffee they had and took a window seat. Today’s hunt hadn’t started yet, as far as he could tell, and he could use the boost.

The chatter of the other customers washed over him, counterpoint to the clinking of metal against ceramic. He wasn’t sure what had possessed the owners to go with real mugs and utensils, but it did encourage one to sit and take a breather, regroup for the rest of the day.

Locus cradled the mug in his hands, absorbing the radiant heat while he waited for it to cool enough to drink without blistering his mouth. To his complete non-surprise, the landlord was proving as stingy with heat as with hot water, general maintenance, and frankly everything else. He should probably pick up a few extra blankets, since none of the ships for the next few months were going his way. It would be just his luck if this year turned out unseasonably cold, on top of everything else. 

And he still hadn’t gotten a heavier coat yet, which he _should_ have done when he picked up ones for the children. He justified it to himself with the thought that decent coats that fit his shoulders were hard to come by second-hand.

“... Sam?”

Locus looked up from his coffee. His three older cubs were clustered around his table, staring at him with varying degrees of worry. How long had he been sitting here, staring at nothing? He shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs from his mind.

“Sorry. I was … distracted.” He had to swallow a yawn to finish the sentence.

His words did not reassure them. If anything, they looked even more worried. That was fair; he had always been the one to notice everything before.

Edgar tried to grin, but it came out wobbly. “Yeah, well, we caught you. What does that get us?”

Locus managed a small smile in return, before he had to smother another yawn. “I’ll think of something.”

Ant frowned. “You don’t look so good.”

“I’m fine.” She tried to lay a hand across his forehead, but he leaned away. “I’m _fine_ ,” he repeated. “Just tired.”

They looked skeptical, but he was spared any further interrogation by the arrival of a bag of fresh muffins. He didn’t remember ordering them, but he must have, when he got the coffee. 

He seriously needed more sleep.

They took their food and left him in peace. Good. That was good. He shouldn’t be letting them get this close. He needed to leave soon, one way or another. Even if it meant backtracking a bit to the outer colonies.

 

* * *

 

The late morning sun made for a very persistent and unrelenting alarm clock when one didn’t have thick enough curtains to block it. It had never mattered before, when he was up before dawn, so he had never bought any. Fate had decided it was time for him to pay for his folly, and allowed the clouds to part just in time for a golden hammer to strike him full in the face.

Locus crawled towards consciousness with a painful slowness. Every muscle in his body ached and his head … what wasn’t stuffed with wool felt like it was sloshing with every movement. For the first time in a long time, he genuinely felt like crying in misery.

_Oh, please. Get the fuck up._

He tried to push himself up to sitting, before laying back down with a groan. One arm over his eyes was enough to protect them from the light. Which was good; lifting them both was a bit more than he wanted to try at the moment. The room wasn’t spinning, but it was definitely swaying.

He had today off. Tomorrow, too, if he remembered correctly. Maybe he could just sleep it off.

Maybe he should just put his pillow over his face until everything stopped hurting.

He was trying to work through whether or not he could just stay in bed when the door to his room eased open. His hand was almost to the sword hilt before a quiet “Sam?” penetrated the thickness in his skull.

“Ant?” he croaked. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Antoinetta?” That didn’t come out much better, but at least it didn’t sound like he’d swallowed gravel.

She cocked her head and studied him. “You look like hammered shit. Stay there.” Before he could process what she’d said, she had disappeared.

He lay there for a few moments, half up on one elbow and blinking at the door, before he forced himself to his feet. It took him a few moments to stabilize and get moving, but he managed to get down the short bit of hallway without falling flat on his face.

The sight in his kitchen was so bizarre, he had to lean against the doorway and just watch.

Estelle was sitting on his kitchen table, kicking her legs and humming. She perked up when she saw him, before frowning in disapproval. “ _You_ are supposed to be in _bed,_ ” she stated. Locus almost barked a laugh at her imperious tone; it sounded so much like Madelyn’s when she’d first approached him.

Antoinetta snickered from her position in front of the stove. She carefully poured some of the water she’d been boiling into a mug and stirred. Estelle slid off the table and marched over to him.

“You are _sick._ You should be _sleeping_.” Her no-nonsense tone almost made him laugh again, but the utter seriousness on her face stopped him. 

She grabbed his hand and stepped past him, tugging him back the way he came. Bemused, he allowed her to lead him back to his bed, where she stood watch until he sat and shoved his legs under the blanket.

Antoinetta followed, holding a steaming mug. “Maddy had to go see what was taking the boys so long. She said to make sure you didn’t, and I quote, ‘do anything incredibly _stupid’_ before she got back.”

Locus blinked, trying to make sense of what she’d just said. She huffed and shoved the mug in his hands. “Here. Milk and honey. I would have made tea but we couldn’t find any in your cabinets. Drink it and go back to sleep.”

He stared at the mug in his hands, trying to find the words. “Why?” he managed.

“Because you’re sick.”

“No, I mean,” he gestured at the mug and the two of them, “why … this?”

Ant looked at him oddly. “Why not? You’ve been taking care of us.” She smiled a little wryly. “Go back to sleep, Sam. It’s no fair sneaking up on you when you can’t stand up straight.”

Estelle bounced over to him, all cheers and smiles now that he was back in bed. “G’night, Sam!” she chirped, before planting a loud kiss on his cheek and skipping out the door after her sister.

Completely bewildered now, unable to even imagine a response to this turn of events, Locus stared at his mug. Finally, he drained it and set it on the little table he’d scrounged last month, before rolling over. He hoped the world made more sense when he woke up for real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good luck, Locus. You're gonna need it.
> 
> (Not sure I've got enough to count as "sick fic" for the tag but threw it in anyway :shrug: )


	5. V. "Quod me nutrit, me destruit"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"What nourishes me, destroys me."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK, please note the new tag. This is why I picked "Choose Not To Warn" as a category: I _do_ reference it, and talk about it later on, so I didn't want to pick "No Warnings", but it's _only_ discussed, so I didn't want to pick "Non-con"/"Underage".
> 
> Also, the reason the chapter count has changed is during drafting I decided to split Chapter 8 into 2 parts, making the second half the new 9. I will be posting 9 & 10 the same day, as 10 is only a short epilogue-type chapter, and I'm leaving the country that day.

The next time Locus opened his eyes, the sun had moved past the corner of his building and was no longer barreling straight into his room. He lay in bed for a few minutes, listening.

There were no strange sounds coming from elsewhere in the apartment. Nothing unusual from the neighboring apartments. Outside sounded normal. He glanced at the end table.

No coffee mug, but the _was_ a glass of water and a blister pack with a pair of cold pills. He frowned; did he put those out last night? He must have.

Clearly, this illness was affecting him more than he realized.

Locus levered himself upright. As soon as he felt steady enough, he downed the pills, grimacing at the bitter aftertaste that was never completely hidden by the mint flavoring. He still felt like he’d been doing training exercises _sans_ armor, but at least the room wasn’t moving any more.

He needed to get on the next ship out, even if meant risking going back to the outer colonies. He had a mission to complete. He couldn’t afford any attachments, and if he was dreaming about being tucked into bed by a five year old, he had definitely been here too long.

He staggered to the bathroom – maybe the room wasn’t as stationary as he thought – to answer nature’s call before going in search of food. Locus knew he was going to have to brave the outside world to restock soon; he just hoped he had enough to hold him over until he felt slightly more coherent. Dinner had been a disaster last night.

He was three steps into the kitchen before he registered the change.

There was a note on the table.

A coffee mug kept it from fluttering away on the breeze wafting in from the window over the sink. He remembered opening the window to vent the kitchen after salvaging the burned remains of his dinner, but he didn’t remember _leaving_ it open.

Slowly, he picked up the note.

The shaking was because he was sick, right?

The paper had been ripped out of a notebook; its edges were ragged and worn, and the lower left corner was missing entirely. The writing was neat and elegant, probably Madelyn’s, but the wording sounded more like Antoinetta or the boys.

 

 

> _Sam,_
> 
> _First of all, if it’s before noon, go back to bed._
> 
> _If it’s later, or you really can’t sleep, there’s some soup in the fridge. Eat, and then go. back. to. bed. If we see you out before tomorrow for anything short of the building on fire, we’ll drag you back ourselves. We’ll stop by later tonight to see if you need anything._
> 
> _Love, us_
> 
> _P.S. Don’t be so surprised we know where you live. You have been teaching us after all. And Estelle’s really small. :)_

 

He groped blindly for the chair and sank into it. They actually had –

He hadn’t been –

They really did –

It was too much for him to handle. Carefully, he placed the note back on the table. Then he buried his face in his hands and wept

 

* * *

 

Eventually, he pulled himself together. Illness was no excuse for being maudlin.

Even if he almost broke again when he saw how much “some” soup actually was. And the other takeout along with it.

How had they _managed_ all this? He knew every shop these came from. Half the owners still gave the kids suspicious looks if they walked in without him, even if the staff had started warming to them.

He poured one small container into a pot to heat properly. A stray gust blew ginger and lime steam towards him as he transferred the soup from pot to bowl.

He wasn’t avoiding anything; the window needed to be locked.

So why was it so difficult to sit back down? Soup should _not_ be intimidating.

 _You are so_ screwed. _I mean really,_ really, _screwed._

Locus couldn’t really argue with that thought.

 

* * *

 

That evening, he was curled up on the sad excuse for a couch that came with the apartment – one of the first things he’d done was check for vermin and other nasty surprises before he decided to leave it. He pulled the blanket tighter around him to ward off the chills that liked to sneak up on him just as he started to get comfortable. His tablet lay discarded next to him. The ship schedules were as useless as always, but he just didn’t have the energy to be upset about it.

He was on his feet, Felix’s knife tucked along one arm, before he’d even consciously registered the doorknob softly rattling. It was unlikely he needed the knife, given that the note said they’re be back. Still …

_Paranoia is a virtue._

An unnecessary one, as it turned out. Antoinetta grinned unrepentantly up at him. “Hi!”

Locus flicked a glance around, taking in the bent wire in her hand, the boxes stacked next to her, and the otherwise empty hallway. “Traditionally, one knocks rather than attempt to pick the lock.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t want to wake you if you were still sleeping.” She stood, still grinning. “Plus, I always wanted to try.”

He shook his head and stepped back. “Is this how you got in earlier?” Didn’t these children have _any_ survival instinct at all? Never mind he’d upgraded the locks within the first week; he would have much preferred military grade, but he took what he could get. If she was that good, he needed to do a serious reassessment of the situation.

The stack of boxes wobbled as she picked them up, but she managed to steady them. “Nah. Estelle let us in when you didn’t answer the knocking.” She slipped past him, making a bee-line for the kitchen to deposit her cargo.

“Let me guess: ‘fairies’ let her in?” he asked, locking the door and following. It was the child’s favorite non-explanation, and it _would_ explain the open window. Even as small as she was, she could have made it to the first floor window with a little ingenuity.

“Got it in one, boss.” Ant pointed a finger at him and mimed firing.

“I’m not your boss,” he snapped, before he could stop himself. She pulled back, startled by his vehemence. “Sorry. Just … never mind.”

“Hey, whatever you say, Sam.” She started unpacking. “Anyway, Maddy noticed you were running low on a few things, so we’re returning the favor.”

“A few things” turned out to be rice, beans, canned goods, bread, milk, more takeout, and yes, there was the tea they all seemed so obsessed with. She immediately started putting everything away, moving with far more confidence than Locus thought was warranted. How long had they been in here while he was sleeping?

“How did you get all this?” he asked suspiciously.

“Well, you’ve been feeding us so often, and you got us those coats. They’re really nice ones, thank you, by the way, we forgot to tell you that. Anyway, Maddy hasn’t had to spend as much, which is good, ‘cause money’s a little tight. So she gave us our orders and turned us loose.” She grabbed the smallest pot from under the counter, the one he used when he didn’t have ambition to make anything more than oatmeal.

He narrowed his eyes. “If money is so tight right now, why are you buying things for _me_?” he challenged.

“Why have _you_ been buying stuff for _us_?” she retorted. When he didn’t answer, she shrugged, filling the tiny pot and setting it to heat. “Some of the restaurants? The servers asked why we were coming in alone, especially the second time. And some of them slipped us a little extra when they heard you weren’t doing so hot. I think a few of the girls are hoping to get in your good graces by being nice to us. One or two of the guys, too, maybe.”

Locus grimaced at the thought; _any_ notoriety could end up being bad. “I didn’t think I’d made that much of an impression.”

_Oh my god._

He mentally rewound the conversation, eyes widening slightly as he realized what she meant.

“Are you serious?” Ant started giggling. “Sam, you’re, like, _eight feet tall–”_

“Six and a half,” he corrected automatically. He was still reviewing the last few times he’d been on the Row.

_Oh, my god._

“– and you look like you could benchpress a _truck_. Dude, you stand out in a crowd.” She grabbed the mug off the table and dropped a tea bag in it, still giggling.

 _Oh. My._ God.

“Right.” He couldn’t remember the last time he’d blushed like this. _Definitely_ past time to leave. He cast about for another topic, to help ignore the memory of someone else laughing at him. “Do I want to know how Madelyn earns her money?” Not that he particularly _cared_ what she did. Or what people who would prefer someone her age would be like.

“Probably not,” Ant replied with a shrug. “But it’s enough to get us by, most days. The stealing’s to cushion the rough times.” She deftly poured hot water in the mug and handed it to him.

“And the begging, too?” He could still remember the sinking shame he’d felt when he saw her bruising. An echo of it was working its way through his gut even now, despite her standing in front of him, clearly at ease.

“Maddy does good work with a makeup brush, huh? Really gets people’s sympathies.” Ant’s smug grin turned to delighted laughter when she saw the gobsmacked look on his face. “You didn’t _know?_ Oh, I’m going to _have_ to tell her she _did_ manage to fool you. She wasn’t completely sure, with the way you asked.”

He could _hear_ Felix howling with laughter. If he hadn’t had the mug in his hands, he would have smacked himself for being so gullible. Maybe he could just hide until a ship showed up.

 

* * *

 

In the end, it was two days before Locus felt alive again, and a third before he felt anywhere close to human.

Fortunately, his absence from the Docks wasn’t considered unusual. According to Aubin, when he called in, he wasn’t the first to come down with … whatever this was, and he probably wouldn’t be the last. There had been a _lot_ of shift scrambling.

Things on the Docks were going to be an absolute mess for the next few weeks. Maybe even the next few months. But he was recovering quickly enough; he should be able to handle anything thrown his way. Hopefully it would keep him so busy he’d be distracted from the UNSC’s continuing failure to _make_ and _keep_ a schedule, but he wasn’t holding his breath.

His convalescence was helped along by copious amounts of soup and tea – as well as spotting one or another of his cubs loitering outside to make sure he stayed put.

Locus was tempted from time to time to slip out past them, just to prove he could, but the concern was … charming.

He was making his way through a carton of vegetable lo mein and checking the schedules again – useless, as always – when that thought came to him. He froze, turning the idea over in his mind.

They knew almost _nothing_ about him. His first introduction to any of them involved almost breaking Antoinetta’s wrist. He continually taunted them with the thought of catching him because he was – he was _bored_ ; the food was just to keep them interested.

And yet, they were going out of their way to take care of him. More than that, they had somehow managed to convince people who had chased them out months before to just _give_ them things for him.

He placed the pad on the table, next to the lo mein. Wearily, he scrubbed his face, then clasped his hands, tapping his fingers against his lips as he thought.

They were taking care of him. Like he was one of theirs. Like a f– like a _team._

He shuddered at that thought. He had to leave. He _couldn’t_ leave. He had to leave _now_. Before they got any farther under his skin. He couldn’t just abandon his t–

Locus realized he was panicking only when his fingers started protesting their abuse. Carefully, he peeled them apart, re-clasping them behind his neck and bracing his elbows on the table. He forced himself to breathe slowly and deliberately, timed to the ticking of the clock, until his heart rate calmed.

Eventually, his thoughts settled. When he felt he could think rationally, he picked his head up and looked around.

The note from the first day was now stuck to the fridge. Various containers filled the small trash; he made a note to empty it later. His few mugs were drying on the counter, having seen more use in the past forty-eight hours than the past forty-eight _days_. Behind the cabinet doors were supplies he hadn’t retrieved himself.

There was no way around it. For better or worse, they saw him as one of theirs, and they took care of their own.

At least he had an idea now what to give them for catching him. And if the landlord didn’t like it, he could go pound sand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, they broke him. I think the only one who didn't see any of this coming was Locus himself.


	6. VI. “Innumeras curas secum adferent liberi.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Children bring with them countless cares.”_

Locus gripped the doorframe and rested his head against it. He should have anticipated what giving the brats a key to his apartment would mean.

He blamed the cold for muddling his thinking, deliberately ignoring the snicker in the back of his mind.

No matter what time, day or night, there was always at least one of them underfoot. More often than not, he would find _all_ of the little ones comfortably ensconced in his tiny living room. He didn’t want to imagine where they had been staying before, if crowding into _his_ place was an improvement.

Madelyn did not often show. Locus didn’t blame her; he imagined she was taking full advantage of her reprieve from the chaos.

For instance, Locus was now the one who had to deal with the complete and utter _disaster_ the twins had made of the kitchen.

“We can explain,” they chorused.

He didn’t know which particular bit of the fiasco was the most impressive. Or what they had been trying to accomplish in the first place. The scorch mark on the ceiling might cost him later, though.

Locus held up his free hand. “I’m not going to ask. I don’t want to know. Just … clean it up. And try to find all the pieces of the coffeemaker before someone steps on one.” He retreated back to the couch and collapsed on it.

Pressing the heels of his palms to his eyes did nothing to relieve the brewing headache. Neither did letting his head drop back to hit the back of the couch.

_Samuel Ortez. Feared mercenary. Wanted war criminal. Unpaid babysitter._

“Not much different than dealing with you,” he muttered under his breath.

_Nyah._

The couch dipped as Ant curled up at the other end. “You know, talking to yourself is considered a sign of lunacy.”

From nearly anyone else, those words would have made him flinch. He threw her a wry smile, instead. “Or it’s the only way to get an intelligent conversation around here.” He could still picture Felix sticking his tongue out, childishly.

The actual child next to him stuck out _her_ tongue, before making a show out of reading her book. At least her hobby was quiet, even if her delight over a battered and obsolete tablet with a handful of fantasy novels on it threatened the indifference he was still trying to cling to.

Locus allowed himself precisely one minute of silence before he steeled himself against wrangling the twins out of destroying the kitchen in another one of their experiments.

He didn’t even bat an eye anymore when he saw Estelle sitting on top of the fridge.

 

* * *

 

Locus sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose as he readjusted the numbers again. He knew he was making more than enough at the Docks, but …

It didn’t matter. He’d taken responsibility for the little pack of street rats, and that included finding enough space for them to sleep semi-comfortably. He wasn’t sure what spirit of good fortune had finally decided to smile upon him, but he wasn’t ignoring the opportunity.

By sheer chance, there had been a larger apartment available in the same building. It had its drawbacks, naturally: it was on a higher floor, had less of a “view” – meaning Locus couldn’t watch the approaches as easily – and it _definitely_ needed a good cleaning; he declined to speculate what the previous tenants had been up to.

Still, the rent wasn’t as high as it could have been. And it had enough room, if only barely, for the six of them. As soon as they had realized there would be enough space, Antoinetta and Estelle, backed by Madelyn, had insisted they _not_ have to share with the twins. So Allan and Edgar got a room of their own, as much as the thought mock-terrified him, the girls took the master, and they all ended up content. Even though Locus had what felt like little more than a glorified closet. Still, he’d had worse during the War, and it was large enough to secure his weapons case.

The thought of doing nothing, even throwing them back out, had occurred to him precisely _once_ , and he’d dismissed it almost as soon as it had formed. They were his responsibility now.

 

* * *

 

A week after the move, Locus learned the real reason Madelyn was absent so often.

He was sitting up late, reviewing the schedules for the next few months. He’d finally convinced the four to settle down for the night – or at least shut the doors with the lights off – and was enjoying the relative quiet. One or two of the incoming ships _might_ be useful, but they were several months out still, so they weren’t in serious consideration.

_What are you going to do when one is?_

He ignored the thought and cleared the screen. He wasn’t even disappointed any more; there was simply no energy left to be upset over the redirects.

Madelyn’s voice broke into his musings, far quieter than he usually heard it. “Sam? I … I think … I think I need your help.”

She was standing on the other side of the table, hugging herself tightly. A chill ran down his spine when she failed to meet his eyes. He’d never seen her look so afraid, not even when she’d originally confronted him and tried to mask it with bravado. Something dark, something he thought he’d finally leashed and chained, stirred within his chest.

“It’s my– It’s–” she took a deep breath and finally looked up.

 _That_ bruise wasn’t makeup. The darkness stretched and started sharpening its claws at the back of his neck. He throttled it back, hard.

“I have a … a brother. Morgan. We were taken in by the same woman when we were younger.” She hesitated. “She raised us and ….”

“And she trained you?” he asked quietly.

She swallowed. “If you mean she had me making money for her on my knees, then yeah. She likes to think she’s this _‘high class purveyor of fine companionship’_ but she’s _not._ She’s just a middle-class madame with delusions of grandeur,” she spat. Her earlier nervousness was overshadowed by her bitter tone.

Locus yanked hard on the mental leash and smoothed his expression. Well, he managed to keep from growling, at least.

“Anyway. I got out, but I couldn’t bring Morgan with me. I managed to do okay by myself, at first, but then I found the others–” she nodded in the direction of the bedrooms “–and it got a lot harder. Morgan was alright at first, because he was still really young. None of her _guests_ really looked his way. But lately …” She rubbed her arms and looked down.

“How old is he?” Locus asked. He had already considered and discarded several extraction scenarios.

“Fourteen. Morgan’s almost fourteen. She said if I came back to work for her she’d leave him alone–” So that was where she had been disappearing to. “–but I overheard her ‘negotiating’ for his first night. She, uh,” Madelyn licked her lips, “was a little drunk and didn’t take our _resignations_ well.”

Locus carefully unclenched his hands from the edge of the table. “You will show me where.” It wasn’t a request.

“I got him out of the house,” she said hurriedly. “But getting all the way here …” She shrugged helplessly. “He couldn’t do it.”

Locus nodded, already revising his initial plans. He left her to attempt to hide her bruising, while he grabbed the first aid kit and a view other potentially necessary items and shoved them in a small duffle bag. After a moment’s hesitation, he slipped the sword hilt into his jacket’s inner pocket. It made for a balanced weight against the pistol he’d holstered on the opposite side.

Hopefully he wouldn’t need any of it.

Allan and Edgar were already asleep when he checked on them. Ant jumped and shoved her tablet under her pillow, jostling Estelle where she was asleep against her shoulder.

“I’m going out for a bit,” he said quietly.

“What’s wrong?” She pulled the blanket up to her chin as he checked the lock on their window. It was unlikely anyone would come through such a high window, but bringing the upgraded locks made them all sleep better.

Locus shook his head. “Nothing. I’ll be back soon.” He hoped.

She watched, quiet and solemn, as he closed the door behind him. How many times had she heard that before?

Madelyn’s bruise was a faint shadow when he returned. “It shouldn’t take too long to get there.”

Locus nodded. He secured the apartment as best he could, then shouldered his bag and followed her into the night.

 

* * *

 

Getting “there” involved far longer in the subways than he cared for. It was late enough that none of the cars were particularly crowded, but he still chose to stand between Madelyn and the rest of the passengers. He got a handful of borderline hostile looks when people would glance at her sitting behind him, but no one seemed inclined to start anything. For her part, she just stared the more irritating ones down with a cool smile and an arched eyebrow.

Eventually, they escaped into the fresher air above ground. “It’s a bit of a walk from here,” she said, apologetically. As if Locus hasn’t been walking everywhere for months now.

He nodded and gestured for her to proceed. “You know the area.”

She set out at a brisk pace, one Locus kept easily. The area was far more suburban than the neighborhoods he was used to. Fortunately, it wasn’t upscale enough to make him stand out as much as he’d feared.

She slowed as they neared a small community center. Music spilled out whenever someone opened the doors. “Around back,” she murmured. “I heard about this place from one of her older girls. It’s … it’s not a safehouse, but it is? Like, a waystation, maybe? They gave me a place to stay the first night. I didn’t know where else to go.”

She was babbling, so unlike her usual self-confident demeanor. He followed, and the staff door opened at her patterned knock. He straightened to attention almost automatically at the sharp, assessing look he received. Apparently he passed muster, as they were allowed in. No words were exchanged at all.

It made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. How long had they been under surveillance as they approached?

Their guide led them down into the basement and to a back room. Given the worn furniture, he assumed it to be the employee lounge. They were left there, the door click shut behind them. Locus’ nerves ratched tighter.

Madelyn crossed to the door opposite them. “Morgan?” she called, knocking softly. “It’s me. I brought Sam.”

Locus could just make out a muffled whimper as he came up behind her. He strangled the anger he felt building and leashed it back. Morgan didn’t need _Locus_ , the mercenary, the _monster_ , right now. Neither of them did. They needed him to be someone else. They needed _Sam._

But if that should ever change …

“Morgan, please, it’s okay,” she called again. “I promise.”

Silence, a bit of shuffling, then …

The door swung open. Morgan stood in the middle of the tiny bathroom, chin up and defiant even as he swayed slightly. A damp towel, presumably filled with ice, lay bundled on the edge of the sink. There was no way to mistake these two as anything but related. Not with that attitude. Or that hair.

Locus– No, _Sam_. He needed to be what he’d been pretending. He shoved _Locus_ to the back of his mind.

 _Sam_ looked the boy over. A number of bruises were looming across his fair skin, but he didn’t seem to have any open wounds. It was the swollen eye, combined with the unsteadiness, that concerned Sam most. A concussion wasn’t good news at the best of times; it was even more dangerous in someone whose brain was still growing.

“If you could get him here, why didn’t you come straight home?” Sam asked.

Madelyn bit her lip and Morgan looked down. “I was scared,” he whispered.

Sam started to reply, but reconsidered. It was easy to forget sometimes that Madelyn was still young, despite the confidence she tried so hard to project. Her brother and the others were even younger. Chorus had truly skewed his perceptions when it came to children.

It shouldn’t be the surprise it was that they had panicked and hidden. And, in a way, going to ground in a safe spot with an injured companion, and calling in support _was_ a smart move. It just wasn’t the one he would have recommended for them.

Madelyn fidgeted. “And I wasn’t sure if you’d …” Her voice trailed off as she bit her lip again.

If he’d take in one more, Sam finished mentally. Fair enough. But if they were safe for the moment, he needed to make sure Morgan was good to travel.

“You should sit down so I can examine you,” he said, putting a steady assurance he definitely didn’t feel into his voice. They needed to be gone and–

_Focus on the task at hand. Isn’t that what you always said?_

Morgan flinched as he focused on Sam. He knew there wasn’t much he could do to reassure the boy, not with how he towered over the two of them, so he forced himself to remain calm and quiet, waiting.

Madelyn stepped forward and took her brother’s hand. “It’s alright,” she said soothingly. “He’s here to help.” Sam stepped back as she coaxed her brother out to perch on a well-worn footstool.

He followed them, going down on one knee to try and reduce how much he loomed. Madelyn tried to retreat slightly to give him space, but Morgan threw her a pleading look, gripping her hand tightly. She nodded and squeezed back. “I’m right here.”

Sam pulled out the first aid kit and shoved the rest of the bag aside, before either could see the spare weapons he had in it. As it was, he caught the simultaneous widened eyes at the glimpse of his shoulder holster. The Key knocked against his leg as he shifted. “Are you bleeding anywhere?”

Morgan shook his head and winced, bringing his free hand to the back of his neck. Sam frowned; head and spine injuries could be _very_ bad news. He lifted one hand to check, freezing when the boy tensed.

Felix had been jumpy when injured, too, especially if no one would bother to talk to him. Perhaps for different reasons, but …

“I need to check for broken bones and other injuries,” Sam said quietly. “Where is it worst?”

Morgan shrugged, wincing again at the maneuver. “... everywhere?”

Sam repressed a sigh. The boy was likely suffering from an adrenaline crash, as well as having his entire world upended so quickly. It was a marvel he hadn’t gone into shock yet. He shifted his hand down towards Morgan’s ankle, and waited. It took his sister squeezing his hand and nodding, but Morgan did shift his leg closer.

Sam took that as permission and immediately started checking for injuries. He kept his touches as brisk and impersonal as possible. Hopefully, basic field medicine would be enough.

Morgan’s legs were relatively uninjured – although there was a particularly vicious bruise that had made him hiss when Sam prodded it. He held out his hand for the boy’s free one.

It took another small nod from his sister, but he allowed Sam to check first that arm, then the other. Sam was able to check his ribs more easily after that. A few felt bruised, and one _might_ be cracked; he’d have to recheck later, after watching Morgan breath for a bit.

Sam checked for neck and spine injuries, a concussion, _anything_ he thought the boy would let him manage. Satisfied that the damage looked far more spectacular than it actually was, he sat back and pulled out one of the smaller cold packs. Morgan’s faith in his sister’s judgement was humbling, and he wasn’t sure where to go from there.

“I assume you had good reason for not going to the hospital?” He asked, activating the pack and holding it out. Morgan took the pack and pressed it to his eye, offering a hesitant smile in thanks.

 _Really chatty, this one._ Sam ignored the passing thought.

Madelyn snorted. “Besides the cost? Couldn’t risk it.”

“Makes sense.” If they hadn’t gone to the police by now, the emergency room probably wasn’t any better. He wouldn’t be surprised at all to find their previous “guardian” had contacts that would turn them over if they tried to seek help. It was an old game, and far from the first time he’d encountered it. The fact that Madelyn had gotten out, and then gone back and gotten her brother, was nothing short of a miracle.

Sam packed up his kit. “Can we get back without attracting too much attention?”

“Eh.” Madelyn held up one hand, palm down, and wiggled it. “It’s not much past midnight, so it could go either way. We’ll either get an empty car because we beat the nightlife, or we’ll get stuck with a bunch of loud drunks.”

Morgan laughed a little, surprising Sam. Getting beaten must not have shaken the boy as much as he’d supposed. “We’ll be fine,” he told his sister.

Madelyn rolled her eyes but her tone was fond. “You _always_ say that.”

“And I’m always right.”

It sounded like an old and familiar argument; Sam decided to stay out of it. “The sooner we leave, the sooner we get home.”

 

* * *

 

If he’d been tense on the way out, Sam was way past high alert on the way back. He’d taken the outside track of the sidewalk, putting himself between the two teens and the road. Every pair of headlights, every slamming door, made his hand twitch. He longed for the solid reassurance of a weapon in his grip, but while he’d had acceptable carry permits forged, walking around with one drawn was asking to put them to the test.

_Miss me yet?_

He missed having someone to watch his back, anyway. A pair of civilian teenagers was a poor substitute.

Their luck held until they got to the subway. The car might not have been empty, but the handful of passengers scattered through it were disinterested in any newcomers. Sam marked them as “potential threats” anyway, and angled himself to keep as many of them in view at once as possible.

“Not everyone’s out to get you,” Madelyn told him as she had her brother took their seats. She didn’t object when he shifted between them and the rest of the car, though.

“Old habits,” Sam replied automatically, eyes never staying in one spot for more than a heartbeat or two.

The first stop was quiet enough. The second, however, brought those loud drunks Madelyn mentioned earlier. Over a dozen young adults, some barely sober enough to stand, crowded through the door and filled the car with their raucous celebrating.

Two of the men staggered up to them, clinging to each other for support.

“Heeeeeey, kids,” one of the slurred, ignoring Sam. “Wanna _party?_ ”

Madelyn shook her head. “No thanks. We’re good.” Morgan shook his head as well when they turned to him.

“Aw, c’mon!” the other one added. “We c’n make it w’rth it.” He leered at Madelyn, leaning in closer. “Waaaaaait, don’ I know you?” He tried to get a closer look at her and overbalanced, nearly falling in their laps.

Viper-quick, Sam twisted a hand in the drunk’s shirt, catching him and hauling him back upright. “They said, ‘no,’” he growled. He did not feel the least bit ashamed at shoving him back into his friend and knocking them both into the seats opposite.

They yelled as they went down, limbs tangled – “What the fuck, man!” “Fucking bullshit!”

He tuned out their verbal abuse as they untangled themselves, focusing instead on body language, even as he kept an eye on the rest of the passengers. Their friends hooted and hollered at the spectacle. Sam flicked a glance over the group but none of them seemed inclined to help.

Eventually, the two of them managed to haul each other semi-upright and they stumbled to the back of the car. Sam kept a weather eye on them until he and the two teens were off the subway and back up to street level. He didn’t relax even a fraction until he’d locked the door behind them, checked the rest of the locks, and reassured himself the younger ones were safely asleep.

“The two of you take my room for tonight,” he said. “I’ll sleep out here.” Everything damning was securely locked away.

He’d judged rightly that they wouldn’t want to separate yet. Madelyn bit her lip – her favorite nervous habit, apparently – even as she tightened her arm around Morgan. “Sam–”

He cut her off with a shake of his head. “We’ll worry about the rest in the morning.”

He didn’t add that it would be more secure if he took watch in the main room. He didn’t think he couldn’t explain that doing so would be more soothing to his frayed nerves than staring at the ceiling and trying to sleep.

She nodded and steered Morgan down the hall. Sam waited until the door closed behind them, before checking the locks one more time and collapsing on the couch. He braced his elbows against his knees and buried his face in his hands.

He seemed to be doing that a lot these days.

What in the world was he _doing?_ He was supposed to be working on getting _off_ this rock, not tying himself even tighter to it. And yet, here he was taking in one more stray.

One more kid, who had no idea what he was getting into.

They thought he was a _good person._

They didn’t know the horrors he had done. How much blood he’d coated his hands with.

All in the name of _following orders_.

And that was the crux of it, wasn’t it?

He’d seen Epsilon’s message; it would have been hard not to, if one had any sort of communications equipment. But while it had focused on Chorus’ troubles and Hargrove’s puppeteering, everything else had been in attached documents that no one would bother with unless they were in the military or politics. The status of the mercenaries “Felix” and “Locus” had been buried at the end of one of them, listed as ‘KIA’ and ‘at-large’. It was unlikely anyone not looking for them would even know they were there.

Sam knew. He’d scoured every bit of data Epsilon had transmitted, while he was still plotting how best to get to the banks he needed. He still wasn’t sure why they hadn’t put a call for his arrest right behind Hargrove’s. He honestly would not have been surprised if they’re made Old West wanted posters. It would fit their humor.

Then again, they had experience with the military-political machine. They were probably concerned that drawing attention to him would result in someone from Charon or the UNSC making sure he “disappeared”, so as not to be an embarrassment.

He sighed. Even if they had seen the broadcast, his little pack didn’t know anything about the monster known as Locus, who had nearly wiped out an entire planet. They’d only ever seen Sam, the ex-soldier who was a little jumpy, but took care of them. They likely wouldn’t believe him even if he told them who he was.

After all, what kind of monster would take in half a dozen orphans off the street, for no discernible reason, including moving to a larger place just so they all had somewhere halfway decent to sleep?

He didn’t think he could make them understand. In all honesty, he wasn’t sure he _wanted_ to.

_Fucking. Sap._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Locus'/Sam's complete lack of self-awareness continues to astound.


	7. VII. “Animum debes mutare, non caeleum.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _7\. “You must change your spirit, not your sky.”_

Morning came far too early, and was chaos as usual. The moment the boys discovered there was a new person in the apartment, and decided they weren’t outnumbered anymore – as an adult, Sam apparently didn’t count – they were all over him.

Sam came up behind the twins and caught the panic forming in Morgan’s eyes. “Break it up,” he said sternly, seizing them by the backs of their shirts and hauling them away. “Give him a chance to settle in before you accost him.” He turned them both around, giving them a little shove down the hall. “Can you manage oatmeal without blowing up the kitchen again?”

Madelyn leaned against the door to his room. “You’re either very optimistic or very naive.”

He shrugged. “Whatever mess they make, they have to clean up.” _That,_ at least, had slightly curbed their penchant for disaster. Their attempt at making rock candy had left hardened sugar syrup and candy shards all over the kitchen; it had taken an entire day for them to clean the kitchen to Sam’s satisfaction. And the less said about “The Pineapple Incident”, as Ant called it, the better. At least now they factored the potential clean-up efforts into their plotting.

Sam turned to Morgan, eyeing him critically. In the morning light, it was even easier to see the resemblance between the two. Morgan’s hair was more of a bright copper next to his sister’s strawberry blonde – Sam expected it wasn’t entirely natural, but time would tell – but they had almost identical facial structure, even with the bruising distorting his features. Madelyn had several years and still a few inches on her brother, but he showed promise of a tall and lean growth spurt. He might even be almost as tall as Sam when he was done.

Sam felt a pang of grief at that. He didn’t know what showed on his face, but the boy’s smile faltered as he shrunk back. His sister laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

“Sorry. You just … reminded me of someone I used to know.” Sam could hear Felix snorting at the understatement. The important thing was that Morgan was breathing relatively easily, and wasn’t unsteady on his feet anymore. “Go shower,” he continued. “You can probably fit into some of Antoinetta’s clothes until we can get you some of your own.”

There was a muffled crash from the kitchen. Sam closed his eyes and sighed. “I’m sure your sister will help you settle in while I deal with … whatever just happened.”

Morgan offered a ghost of a smile in response. Sam took that as a hopeful sign.

 

* * *

 

Estelle had taken one look at Morgan and declared that _she_ would take care of him. “Taking care of” apparently involved bundling him up on the couch with a cup of tea. Madelyn had looked sheepish and they had all muffled snickers – Sam had to bite the inside of his cheek – at Morgan’s look of dismay. Estelle was satisfied only when he’d been properly cocooned, with her kitty plush tucked in with him.

No one knew where she had gotten the thing. She’d just brought it out of her room one day and it accompanied her everywhere from then on. When asked, she just said, “Fairies.”

Sam had a few suspects in mind. Ever since the days he’d been sick, he’d been wary of setting foot on the Row, and he wouldn’t be surprised if someone there had given it to her. Fortunately for his nerves, cooking for the group somehow proved easier than just cooking for himself. Especially once he’d admitted defeat and let Edgar and Allen help.

Sam cast a stern look at the two kitchen chemists as he shrugged into his jacket. “If I hear of you causing trouble again, we’re going to have a little _talk_. I’m sure I can find a more productive way to burn off that energy.” He paused, adopting a thoughtful look. “Perhaps a little gardening.”

They looked up at him, side-by-side pictures of absolute innocence. “We can be good!”

“I know you _can._ ” He smirked. “I’m more interested if you _will_.”

The innocence slid off their faces. He managed not to laugh at their long-suffering sighs. They’d have to try a lot harder than that to convince him. Still, he was reasonably certain the building would still be standing when his shift was over.

 

* * *

 

“Madelyn.”

Madelyn stopped, two steps in from the door, at that quiet word. She eyed Sam warily as he sat down at the kitchen table. “You’re up late. Or is it early?”

He held up his mug. “Does it really matter?”

Her shoulders slumped. “No, I suppose not.” Kicking off her shoes, she stepped over to the stove to make her own tea. They’d both known this talk was coming sooner or later. “So, are you going to give me the ‘not while you live under my roof’ speech?” She leaned against the counter, unwilling to give up the small height advantage standing gave her.

Sam’s lips twitched, almost involuntarily. “Would you listen to me if I did?”

She snorted. “Probably not.”

He cradled the mug in his hands and stared at the rippling reflection for a moment. “Are you safe?” he asked quietly.

“I– what?” That had clearly not been the response she’d been expecting. Truthfully, it hadn’t been the response he’d been planning on giving.

“Are you safe?” he repeated. In the end, he supposed it was the only thing that mattered.

She huffed and sipped her tea as she considered the question. That she was giving it serious thought reassured him a bit, in and of itself.

“As safe as I can be, I guess,” she finally answered. “It’s not like I’m out on a street corner where anyone can cause trouble. It’s just a few of us networking, so there’s always someone who knows where we are. In theory.” She fiddled with the mug handle. “They … may think I’m a bit older than I am.”

He sighed and shook his head. “Madelyn.” When she opened her mouth to argue, he held up one hand. “I don’t care that you’re a prostitute. I _do_ care that this is a port city, with ships’ crews who are probably three steps from climbing the walls by the time they dock. When you consider the type of people who would … prefer the company of someone younger–” She snorted at his phrasing, and he acknowledged it with a wry smile. “Honestly? I _would_ be happier if you stopped, if only so I don’t have to worry about you.”

“I can take care of myself! I’ve _been_ taking care of all of them!” She gestured towards the bedrooms. “Just because you let us live here doesn’t mean I should _stop._ ”

He let the ticking of the clock fill the silence for a long moment. “Do you know why I’m here? Why I work at the Docks?” He knew she knew. He’d never hidden his immediate goal, just the motivations.

She blinked, taken aback at the quietly serious question. “You’re waiting for a ship to take you Earth-ward,” she answered cautiously. He saw in her eyes the exact moment the significance of that registered.

“Which means sooner or later, one _way_ or another, I’m going to leave. I have to. But when that happens, they’re going to need you to step up again. Which you can’t do if something happens to you before that.” He shook his head again. “ _That_ is what has me worried.”

Madelyn chewed on her lip. “What do you mean you ‘have to’?”

“I’d … rather not say. Not yet.” Not ever. Not to them. He couldn’t. “Just, if you’re not going to stop, be _careful_. Please.”

It was that quiet “please” that made her pause. “Alright. But you’re going to tell me what you meant, eventually.”

_Not a chance._

The faint smile he managed was a sad one. “You’re both intelligent and clever. You’ll likely figure it out first.” And heaven help him when she did.

She drained her tea and pushed off the counter. “Well, whether I do or not, it’s going to have to wait until morning.” She paused by his chair and pressed a kiss to his forehead. “G’night, Sam.”

“Good night, Madelyn.”

 

* * *

 

“Don’t you look comfortable.”

For someone who made her living pretending to like people, Madelyn did a very poor job controlling the amusement in her voice. Then again, she’d have to actually _want_ to control it in the first place.

Sam cast her a glare, but it wasn’t as effective as it normally would have been, given that he was pinned to the couch by Estelle asleep on his chest and Edgar sitting on his legs. Allan was sitting on the floor in front of his brother, effectively blocking any attempt for Sam to slide out from under Edgar, unless he wanted to kick the other boy in the head. Ant rounded off the capture by parking herself next Allan and using Sam’s arm as a pillow.

“I made the mistake of holding still for five minutes,” Sam groused. It was a bit more complicated than that, but they didn’t need to know that. It was his problem to solve, not theirs.

Morgan stifled a giggle from where he was curled up in the worn armchair they’d added just a few days ago. He still seemed nervous about joining their eccentric little family, but Madelyn had clearly been telling her brother stories about the other children, at least. By the time Sam had come home that first day, Morgan was already laughing and helping clean up a flour explosion before it spread through the whole apartment.

Morgan was still a bit skittish around Sam, but that was to be expected; hardened soldiers had been known to be “skittish” around him. Still, he wasn’t hiding, which was more than Sam had expected in the first week.

Ant reached up without looking and smacked him. “You need a break before you get sick again. Now shush, the movie’s about to start.”

He could hear Madelyn laughing the whole way to her room. That was good. At least they were all enjoying themselves. They probably wouldn’t be quite so relaxed if they knew what he knew.

In four months, there was _definitely_ a ship passing through on its way inward. And it was highly unlikely to be diverted. The problem, from his point of view, was that it wasn’t a freighter. It was a mercenary unit, stopping in for a bit of R &R and resupply after far too long staring at the bulkheads.

Sam had checked the crew list out of habit, and a few of the names had started ringing bells. He knew he recognized at least two of them from having worked with them before. The odds were good they would recognize him as well if he was unfortunate enough to cross their paths.

And if they did, they would try to grab him in a heartbeat. Any mercenary company worth the name would have combed through any scrap that would have come out of Chorus, to see what opportunities could be wrung from it. Part of the reason his route had been so winding had been to avoid mercenaries in the first place.

How much could they get if they managed to drag back to Chorus the man who’d nearly killed everyone there? What would they do to get to him?

He sighed and nudged the stuffed toy from under his chin, tucking it back against Estelle’s chest. He needed to leave before then. He’d made enough in the … dear God, had it really been almost a year? Well, he’d had almost no major expenses the first four months, save rent and eating out when cooking became too much effort, and even now they weren’t hurting for money. He could leave them most of it, even pay the rent several months in advance, and they should be okay for a little while.

 _Except for the part where, you know, you_ abandon _them. Seems like you’re forming a habit._

They’d survive, he told himself firmly. They were managing before he’d stumbled across them, and they’d be in a better spot than they had been when he left. He still had most of what he’d made on previous ships banked against emergencies, and if anything counted as an emergency, _this_ did. He should be able to get a new identity, book passage out, _and_ leave them a cushion.

He found himself unconsciously rubbing small circles into Estelle’s back. He was genuinely going to miss them. He hadn’t expected that. It didn’t change anything, though.

Except how much it was going to hurt.

 

* * *

 

Sam held onto the sink, anchoring himself with the cool solidity under his hands. A small part of him was amazed he hadn’t worn grooves in it by now, or flat-out shattered it. The rest of him was focused on reminding himself where he was.

He took careful, deep breaths, holding each and counting, before letting it out slowly.

It didn’t help. He could still hear them, whispering just below the level of understanding. Every soldier – every _child_ – that they’d killed – that _he’d_ killed on Chorus, all under the pretense of helping them win their war – every one who’d trusted him – followed him out of his nightmares. And they _had_ been children, some of them not much older than Morgan and Antoinetta when they’d taken up arms.

His nightmares had started wearing _his_ children’s faces, all of them. And it was nearly enough to bring him to his knees.

He’d realized his error, acknowledged his mistake, but not in time. If it hadn’t been for the two Freelancers stalling them, and the Chorusan soldiers seizing the tractor beams, every one single one of them would have been wiped out. Because …

… because he was a _coward_. Because even though Agents Washington and Carolina had tried to give them one last chance to stop, he’d been too afraid to tell Felix _no_. Too afraid at every step to stop hiding in the shell of Locus and do what he knew, deep down, he should. 

Because it wasn’t until it was _personal_ that he’d turned on the the one person who’d always had his back. 

Even now, he found it nearly impossible to face the knowledge of everything they’d done. The bloody trail they’d cut across the galaxy, running from their respective demons.

 _I was_ not _running!_

He could only come at obliquely, and only for a few moments, before the enormity of it all terrified him into slamming the door shut on it again.

Sam splashed some water on his face. For a moment, the drops on his eyelashes caused his reflection to blur. He didn’t see pale scars crossing brown skin.

He saw green markings across battle steel …

He saw a flash of orange behind his shoulder … 

… he saw a spiderweb of cracks, throwing back distorted reflections.

“... Sam?”

He looked back, trying to force his brain into working. “Morgan.” It was Morgan’s hair he’d seen, not Felix’s armor. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you,” he said quietly.

Morgan shifted from foot to foot. “Estelle wanted some water.” He was very deliberately not looking at the remains of the mirror.

Then why not get Ant or Madelyn? Or, as she’d done before, get it herself? Sam refrained from asking. Five-year-olds ran on their own, eminently superior logic. He focused on that, and not on the fact that he’d clearly frightened at least one of them.

Estelle stared up at him, little face solemn and one arm wrapped around her ever-present stuffed cat. She cocked her head to the side as she studied him. “You’re bleeding.”

Sam looked to the mirror, then down at his hand. Blood trickled from the fist he’d planted dead center in the glass. “I am.”

“Morgan will help.”

They locked eyes over her head, before the teenager smiled down at her. “I will, will I?”

She took Morgan’s hand in her free one. “Yes. You like to help people. Sam needs your help. So you will fix it.”

Morgan couldn’t help laughing a little, and Sam managed a faint smile. It was hard to argue with Estelle’s certain tone. He suspected even Felix would have found himself verbally outmaneuvered by her.

_Fat chance._

“Let me clean this up, first,” Sam said. “I’ll meet you in the kitchen.”

By the time he cleaned up the glass, disposed of the mirror, and sat down at the table, Estelle had her water and Morgan had retrieved the first aid kit from the cabinet. Leaving it in the kitchen had seemed prudent after one too many disasters; he _really_ didn’t want them poking around in his room for it.

Sam sighed in amused resignation as Estelle climbed in his lap. Sometimes he wondered if she could win an argument with the laws of physics by just doing as she pleased.

Morgan pulled on a pair of gloves, laughing a little. “I guess you’re not going anywhere until I’m done.” What Sam had initially taken for reticence at their first meeting was just the boy’s natural quietness. Even now, he was soft-spoken.

Sam obediently held out his hand at Morgan’s gesture. “So it would seem.”

Estelle watched Morgan dab the cuts on his fingers with an antiseptic wipe. “Why did you punch the mirror?”

“I was upset. I shouldn’t have done that.” It was an _extremely_ stupid move to do barehanded. He hoped there were no fine slivers to work their way under the skin, or cuts deep enough to let them into his knuckles.

“Did you have a bad dream?”

He hesitated. “Bad dream” was an understatement, but it was an open secret that he had nightmares. “... yes.”

She leaned back against his shoulder, still watching her newest brother. “Why?”

Morgan looked down, examining the torn flesh for fragments of glass, and studiously ignoring the conversation. He tilted Sam’s hand this way and that, looking for tell-tale glints. Sam looked back to Estelle, trying to find the words to explain to her. Words that wouldn’t let them know how dark his past actually was.

“I made a lot of mistakes and did … a lot of very bad things before I came here.” _That_ was the understatement of the century. But they knew he had been a soldier. Hopefully that would be enough for them. “And there is no way to undo them or fix them, even though I wish I could,” he answered quietly.

He was surprised how true that last part felt.

She hugged her toy, thinking over his words. “Can you make them better?”

He almost said “no,” but he paused, considering her word choice. She was far more perceptive than any five-year-old had a right to be. “I was trying to, when I first came here. But I would have to leave to do so.”

He could feel Morgan’s hand trembling under his at that statement.

She nodded. “So you will leave.” She said it so calmly, one could be forgiven for missing the tension in her shoulders.

“No,” he answered immediately. “That would be a mistake, too.” He wrapped his free arm around her and squeezed Morgan’s hand in his other. “I’m not leaving you. I’m not leaving _any_ of you.”

Heaven help him. Heaven help them _all_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this whole fic might just have been an excuse to write the puppy pile scene XD [vlasdygoth](http://vlasdygoth.tumblr.com/) did a fantastic job illustrating it! And doesn't Sam just look like death on toast at the end there?


	8. VIII. “Inter metum et spem.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Between fear and hope.”_

_Pretty little speech back that. Now, how are you going to pull it off?_

Sam folded his hands behind his head as he lay back, the bandages on his knuckles creasing and pulling slightly. If he couldn’t stay here – and with _Hound of Mars_ a little over three months out, he couldn’t – and he wasn’t leaving them behind, there really was only one course of action.

He just hoped it worked.

 

* * *

 

“This seat taken?”

Sam looked up, one eyebrow quirked, as Aubin slid into the seat next to him without waiting for his response. He looked over at the other tables and their open seats, where she usually sat with the other shift leads, and back to her with an amused smirk. “Is something wrong?”

She shrugged and cracked open her drink. “Nah. I just wanted to know how much time I’ve got to find your replacement.” She took a swig and waited.

He shrugged. “I don’t know yet. I wasn’t going to say anything until I was sure.” He eyed her curiously. “What makes _you_ so sure I’m leaving?”

Aubin shrugged again. “You had that look. Like you’d finally made a decision. But you didn’t stop watching the schedules, so you weren’t choosing to stay.” She swapped the drink for a bunch of grapes and popped a few in her mouth. “You taking your stray along?”

Sam shot her a reproving look. “I’d have to adopt her – to be _able_ to adopt her, for that.” Or at least present evidence he had; he already had a plan in mind for that particular little problem.

“Around here? Might be easier than you think,” she said quietly. “Might be for the best, too.” She waved off his curious look. “Mind if I make a suggestion?”

If she was offering to help him _adopt_ Estelle … “What?”

“So _suspicious._ ” She pulled his tablet over and scrolled through the incoming ships. “That one.”

 _The fuck kind of name is_ that?

“ _Sow’s Ear_? Why?” The listing said it was coming in soon, but was likely to be docked for repairs. That would … cut it close to _Hound of Mars_. Painfully close.

She stripped a few more grapes off their stems. “I know the captain. And the owner. They’re used to unusual cargo. And passengers. Neither one is going to bat an eye over having a kid underfoot.”

Smugglers, then. Or at least … _flexible_ when it came to shipping regulations. Sam could work with that, depending on the circumstances. “I’ll … consider it.” One child “underfoot” was far different from half a dozen. “How do you know them?” he asked, trying to steer the subject away from Estelle.

“Captain’s my cousin.” Aubin’s smile was positively impish.

“And the owner?”

“Her wife.”

 

* * *

 

There were two major hurdles to taking his pack off-planet, equal in importance, but vastly different in difficulty. The first was simple enough, even if it was likely to wipe out most of his reserve.

Teaghan Potachevska was a short woman, a little on the pleasantly plump side, with a sunny smile and twinkling eyes. The kind of woman you wouldn’t be surprised to find pulling cookies out of the oven when you walked in her house. All around, she looked exactly like the definition of “motherly.”

She ran, among a few other things, one of the better thrift stores serving the neighborhood. A modest little business, but it did more than enough business to show a profit most months. Generally, it was Sam’s first stop when he needed anything, be it clothes or something for the apartment.

It also made a surprisingly good cover for one of her other, more lucrative businesses, for _Titka_ Teaghan just happened to also be a skilled forger of documents.

If Sam was going to take the entire group off-planet with him, he couldn’t just walk into the local planetary clerk’s office and ask for passports for six minors he had no legal claim to. He needed fake papers, _good_ fakes, and the most logical person to visit was the one who’d made his new ones when he’d first arrived.

“I hear you picked up a new stray,” she said casually, straightening out a rack of shirts. 

“Oh, really?” Sam plucked a coat off the next rack over and shrugged into it, checking the ease of movement. Of course he would finally remember to look for a coat in his size now that he was leaving soon. Too bad this one was too tight in the shoulders. He put it back on the rack with a twinge of regret; it was a quality piece, just too small.

“Your littlest one’s a chatterbug.” She flashed him an amused smile. “She told me she had a new big brother the last time Madelyn brought her in.”

Naturally. Sam eyed her suspiciously. “ _You_ wouldn’t happen to know where she got that stuffed cat she drags everywhere, would you?”

“Maybe it followed her home,” she answered, her eyes twinkling with mischief.

“Of course.” Sam just shook his head and huffed a laugh. “Well, you heard correctly. I don’t know how I’m going to wrangle the lot of them if I decide to take them on a trip. At least Madelyn is old enough to help keep them in line.”

“You’re a far braver person than I am, dearie!” she laughed. “I don’t think I could managed two or three of the little hellions, let alone all of them! Not at my age, anyway.”

Sam eyed her in mock-disbelief. She made this claim about being too old for anything at least twice a day, it seemed. “I highly doubt you’re older than I am.” She laughed again, delighted that he was playing along this time. 

They wandered through the small shop, _Titka_ Teaghan neatening her displays, Sam picking up a few more items for the four middle children – all of whom were hitting growth spurts, because why should things be _easy_ – and chatting idly about how difficult it was to raise so many on his own.

 _This_ sort of small talk he could manage, covering his primary purpose for stopping in. By the time he left, he had a fairly solid estimate of the cost, and while expensive, it wasn’t as bad as he had initially feared. The time frame might be cutting things a bit close, however, depending on when _Sow’s Ear_ ended up departing.

Now he just needed to know one more thing before he told her to go ahead.

 

* * *

 

The second problem he tackled over breakfast the next morning, before he panicked and tried to find another way out.

As soon as everyone had followed their noses to the kitchen and eaten – pancakes were managed with only the normal amount of mess this time – he pulled the pin and waited for the explosion.

“Do any of you have any objections to leaving?”

The three boys all paused as they gathered up the dishes. Ant cocked her head while she tested the water running in the sink. “You mean like going to one of the vacation towns?”

“No.” Sam hesitated. “Off-planet.”

Estelle jumped up, squealing. “We get to go to _space?”_

Well, _that_ put the fox in the henhouse.

“Where are we going?” “ _When_ are we going?” The twins abandoned the dishes in favor of grabbing his arms and pelting him with questions. Ant demanded to know whether or not he was joking, because she was going to spray him with the sink hose if he was because _that’s not funny!_ Estelle was spinning in circles and jabbering to her cat about stars.

The two oldest were the only ones not adding to the cacophony, although Morgan looked like he was trying hard to smother his own excitement. Madelyn merely offered her amused eyebrow raise at Sam’s helpless shrug.

Eventually the hubbub died down to something below a dull roar. Space travel had become so routine for him, he hadn’t considered how exciting it would be for them. If this didn’t work, he was going to have a potential disaster on his hands.

 _I guess you could say they’re over the moon._ If Felix had actually been present, Sam would have smacked him for that. As it was, he had to stifle the urge to roll his eyes.

 _“Maybe,”_ he stressed. When their faces started to fall, he hurried on. “First of all, I need to know if anyone will charge me with kidnapping if I take you offworld.” That got him a few laughs, even though he wasn’t trying for them. He hadn’t wanted to ask before; it would have meant admitting he cared. But it was long past time he heard their reasons for living on the street.

Their stories were all depressingly similar: parents either dead or run off, and no other family to take them in, so they scrounged on the streets until they found each other.

Madelyn and Morgan had actually lost their mother to “ship lost, cause unknown” when her unit had been activated and sent out to deal with a resurgence of Insurrectionist activity. Grief had caused their father to drink himself into a stupor and wander in front of a truck one night. Madelyn had been six, Morgan barely three, and a “kindly” woman offered to take them in from the overburdened foster system – probably along with a tidy little bribe to make sure their records were “lost”.

No wonder they had stayed with her for so long.

Edgar’s and Allan’s parents had died in a construction accident at the orbital platforms less than a year before they’d found Sam. Somehow, in the complete chaos of sorting through that, they were left waiting as various agencies played Not My Problem and shunted responsibility

Estelle never really knew their mother, and Ant claimed not to remember her well; The woman had walked out and never looked back when Estelle was barely two. That same year, their father had been deemed unfit after one too many brushes with the law, and the girls had been seized by the state. Supposedly, there had been a relative coming in from off-world, so they had bounced around the foster system until Ant overheard that they were going to be split up the next time they were moved. She had packed clothes for the two of them, grabbed her sister, and walked out. The relative never showed.

A no one had cared to look for any of them. They’d all just … slipped through the cracks in the system until they landed in his path.

Sam knew he was a selfish asshole for feeling it, but he was glad they had no one else looking for them. It made things a great deal simpler for him. He squashed the relief that there was no one to take them away from him, telling himself it was just a matter of logistics.

_Yep. You’re a complete and utter bastard. Nice, huh?_

 

* * *

 

Nothing changed the fact that _Titka_ Teaghan was going to need time to deliver. A single person traveling on his own for work was hardly unusual these days. Sam rarely got more than a cursory glance at his own papers. Having half a dozen kids in tow, however, _would_ be uncommon, and was almost guaranteed to draw more scrutiny. Especially as he could only realistically expect to pass two of them as his by blood.

Sam _knew_ this. He was used to the “hurry up and wait” game. Especially when the work had to be quality. It didn’t stop his nerves from tightening every time he checked the schedules and _Hound of Mars_ crept ever closer.

Madelyn found him up late one night, sitting at the table and worrying the scar tissue over his nose.

He’d nearly panicked the first time they’d seen his scars uncovered and demanded to know the story behind them. Madelyn had put her foot down and refused to let them pester him; he’d tell them what and when he wanted to.

Ant had been the most disappointed. She was certain there was some grand adventure behind them, and he’d almost wanted to make one up, just for her reaction.

Other than that, they hadn’t cared about his scars. It was a little surreal for him, that the marks he’d carried for so long were just a potentially interesting story for them.

He’d started telling them carefully edited tales of his past after that, little bits about squadmates being foolish, and the like. Sam allowed himself a bit of schadenfreude when recounting the time he learned exactly how much duct tape it took to hold a certain partner of his to the ceiling of a Pelican.

He _also_ told them how much the squad had _used._ And how he’d nearly cracked a rib laughing before he cut his partner down.

Hearing Felix grumbled like an offended cat in the back of his mind just added to his enjoyment.

There were some stories, however, that he would never tell them. Like why he knew some of the crew of _Hound of Mars_ , and why he desperately didn’t want to encounter them.

“Friends of yours?”

He started as she put a mug of tea down by his elbow. She flat out refused to brew coffee for him, declaring it was a miracle he hadn’t given himself ulcers or a heart attack, or both, with how strong he preferred it. “What?”

She sat down across from him, blowing on her own mug to cool it. “You’ve been staring at the crew list for at least five minutes,” she said, nodding at his tablet.

He swiped the screen clear and pushed the tablet away. “No. I … worked with a few of them in the past. I’d rather not renew the acquaintance.”

“ ‘Worked.’ ” Madelyn took a cautious sip of her tea. “Not ‘served?’ ” she asked, curious.

“No.”

“Ah.”

Silence reigned in the small kitchen, broken only by the ticking of another clock he hadn’t bothered to replace.

“I was a mercenary. For a long time after the War.” He pulled his tea closer and stared at the trembling surface. He could _really_ use a strong coffee right now, to shock his brain out of chasing itself in circles. But then he wouldn’t even manage the little bit of sleep he usually got, and he still had to work in the morning. Keep the routine the same until they left. “For a very long time,” he added in a low voice.

She slouched in her seat, crossing her legs at the ankles. “You don’t sound proud of that.”

“There’s _nothing_ to _be_ proud of!” he snapped, surprising them both with his vehemence. The mug in her hands didn’t spill, but it did slosh enough to sting her knuckles when she jumped. 

Sam grabbed the dishtowel and passed it to her. “Sorry,” he mumbled. He stared resolutely at the blank screen between them as she patted herself dry.

“S’ok. I should have expected it.” She balled up the towel and dropped it on the table. At his puzzled look, she added, “You don’t like to talk much about your past, except a few silly stories. You barely sleep. You have some pretty major nightmares.” Madelyn gestured at his right hand, now graced with a shiny new scar across his middle finger. “You broke the mirror after one of them. It’s not really a surprise you’re not happy with it.”

He couldn’t help the small snort. He still had to replace the mirror before they left. “Nevertheless, I still should not have shouted at you.”

“Well, _I’m_ not going to argue with you about that,” she retorted. “But I’m sorry, too, for pushing.”

“Hopefully, we’ll be able to leave before they dock, and the whole situation becomes academic,” he said, deliberately turning the subject back. He pulled the tablet back to him, intending to refresh the schedules.

The towel hit him square in the face. Sam would never admit to the undignified squawk he let out, but it was too late. Madelyn was already laughing at him.

“Go to sleep, Sam,” she said, reaching across the table for the tablet. “You can tell me what to watch for. _In the morning,”_ she added sternly. He pulled his hand back, giving a sheepish little smile in return.

“You’ve been helping us, Sam. Let us help you.”

He paused for a moment in the doorway. How did anyone respond to that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He's still trying to deny how much they mean to him, bless his heart.


	9. IX. "Nosce te ipsum."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _9\. "Know thyself."_

Sam stared moodily into his drink wondering for perhaps the thousandth time how his life had gone so far off course. His task had been simple; get to a world with a secure network, empty every reserve he could access, and send as much of Doyle’s estimated supply list to Chorus as he could. What happened to him after that was irrelevant. 

Somehow, that had landed him in a pub with a Docks supervisor, waiting to meet her cousin who captained a ship that could hopefully take him and the six children in his care off-world.

Somewhere on the other side, Felix was laughing himself sick.

 

* * *

 

_“Glory!”_

_“Zee-Zee!”_

Sam sat back, watching the normally tough-as-nails Aubin squeal and launch herself out of her chair to hug the woman who’d come up to their table. The two women laughed and pounded each other on the back as they embraced.

Well, _that_ sentiment he understood; there was nothing quite like the relief of seeing someone return safely from deployment, or being the one to return.

Eventually, they separated and turned to him. “Glory, this is Sam. Like I told you, he’s thinking of abandoning us and going wandering. Sam, my cousin, Captain Glore’Yahn Grzelak.”

Sam managed not to flinch at the word “abandon”; Aubin had no idea. He half-stood and shook Grzelak’s proffered hand. “Captain.” 

The grip he got in return was firm and confident. “Sam. Ignore this brat. She still hasn’t forgiven me for not keeping both feet dirtside, so she gets a little bitchy.”

Aubin stuck her tongue out at her cousin. “Nyah.”

He shook his head at the juvenile response. Aubin punched her cousin in the shoulder. “Speaking of not forgiving, if you skip out on dinner again, Mom and Dad won’t forgive _me_ for letting you slip away.”

Grzelak raised her hands in mock-surrender. “I’m not going anywhere for weeks,” she laughed. “I’m sure you can twist my arm.”

Aubin smacked her cousin on the shoulder again and left, promising dire consequences to both of them if either disappointed her. Sam wasn’t sure what she meant in his case, but she waved off his protestations.

“So, I’ve been told you have a little munchkin that would stow away in your bags if you try to leave with us.” Grzelak snagged some fries off the plate her cousin left and started munching.

“Actually …,” Sam forced his shoulders down when they tried to creep up to his ears. “... six.”

“Six is a hell of a lot different than one. How the hell do you have _six_ kids? Zee said you haven’t even been here a year?” Grzelak’s eyebrows shot to her hairline.

He shrugged. “I ask myself that daily.” Sam too a swig of his beer. “Honestly? They followed me home one day and won’t leave.”

She laughed. “Didn’t you ever learn not to feed strays?”

“Apparently not,” he answered drily. “Is that going to be a problem?”

“I should be asking _you_ that,” she retorted, eyes sharp.

His voice was firm. “There’s no problem.” At least, there wouldn’t be, in a few more weeks.

She smiled, brilliant white in her space-dark face. “Then let’s talk business.”

 

* * *

 

_Behind you and left._

By the time his conscious brain had caught up with the mental warning, Sam was already scanning the store windows for reflections. 

He’d been on edge from the moment _Hound of Mars_ ’ status had changed from “In Transit” to “Docked” in the list. The mercenary ship had arrived yesterday, but it would be at least another three days, possibly as many as five, before _Sow’s Ear_ was cleared for departure. All it would take was one slip, one chance encounter, and all his plans would be ruined.

 _There._ He turned casually, watching out of the corner of his eye the two mercenaries across the street.

 _Titka_ Teaghan had come through with flawless papers, naming him the legal guardian of all six minors. The concept was as reassuring as it was terrifying; he wondered if that was a sign he’d finally gone completely mad.

_As a hatter._

Captain Grzelak had cut him a far better deal than he’d expected on passage for the seven of them. Sam suspected that was due to her cousin’s influence more than anything else. The whole venture took far more of his emergency fund than he was happy with, but it wasn’t as bad as he’d initially feared. Of course, he’d still have to do scut work for part of his share. That was for the best, though. He didn’t do well if left idle for too long.

All of that would go completely out the airlock, however, if he was recognized by any of his “past associates.”

Less than a week. They could do this.

He’d survived worse.

He didn’t draw an easy breath until the two mercenaries rounded the corner.

 

* * *

 

“Do other planets really have blue skies too?”

“Does the rain feel the same?”

“What about snow?” “Do they have birds?” “How long are the days?” “Oooo! Can we–”

Sam laughed at the rapid-fire onslaught of questions. Allan and Edgar bounced along the sidewalk, sometimes skipping, completely incapable of simply walking forwards next him. “Most planets that were colonized were similar to Earth, although this is one of the colder ones. So yes, most of them have blue skies and snow. Wherever we end up will likely be similar to here. Maybe a bit warmer.”

He shifted the bag to his other arm. They were to report to _Sow’s Ear_ in the morning, and the younger ones were wound up with excitement. Sam had been on edge for an entirely different reason, but even he wasn’t completely immune to their enthusiasm. 

Everything they were bringing was packed – which mostly consisted of clothing and a few tablets – and the apartment had been scrubbed top to bottom. If they thought it was a holdover of military “spic-n-span” days, he wasn’t going to tell them otherwise.

But they wanted to do something to celebrate leaving, and the twins wanted to bake a cake, even though the cupboards were bare and they’d been living on take-out for the last few days. So, one last trip to the store for the smallest amount of groceries they could manages and some disposable pans, on the condition that _everything_ was cleaned up by–

“Whoa!”

Allan backed around the corner and straight into one of _Hound of Mars’_ crew. Sam’s heart jumped into his throat and lodged there, unmoving. It wasn’t someone he knew personally, just a face and a name memorized off the crew list, but he was already analyzing threats and had three escape routes before Allan regained his feet.

She was alone, as far as he could tell. That simplified things.

“Watch where you’re going, kid,” she growled. Her glance slid over Allan, past Sam and Edgar, and she kept going, barely even breaking stride. Sam stared after her in shock, before collecting himself and the boys.

His hesitation nearly cost him everything. He may not have know the mercenary who had run over Allan, but the one she met up with a block down – _that_ one he knew. He hadn’t worked with D’Angelo in years, but Sam caught the puzzlement in his eyes. Like he was trying to remember if he knew Sam. After one more heart-stopping moment, both mercenaries turned away and continued down the street. 

He was shaking by the time they got back to the apartment and locked the door. He couldn’t believe the three of them had gotten home without being tailed. They hadn’t recognized him. They hadn’t _recognized_ him.

_People see what they expect to._

And nothing could look farther from the mercenary “Locus” than a man standing between his two boys, holding a bag of groceries.

_D’Angelo will figure it out eventually. He’s not quick, but he’s not that stupid, either._

Now _that_ was likely. Sam’s armor and heavy weapons were already sealed in _Sow’s Ear_ ’s hold, but he still had the plasma sword and several smaller weapons to hand. He hadn’t planned on needing them before morning, but none of his other plans had gone well, so why should this one?

While Madelyn attempted to keep everyone from destroying the kitchen, he armed himself as best he could, without it being obvious and frightening them. The pistol and the sword hilt went back under his jacket. He strapped his combat knife to the small of his back, and several smaller ones to his forearms and calves under his clothes. It wasn’t much, but it was what was available, and his shoulders loosened slightly now that he was armed.

It was unnerving, how easily he slipped back into the role of a soldier in a war zone.

“You look like you’re expecting a fight.”

Madelyn’s voice broke into his thoughts, even as she echoed them, dragging him back to the present. He looked over to see her studying him from the doorway. 

“Morgan’s keeping an eye on everyone, while Estelle holds court,” she offered. She tilted her head, inviting him to respond. 

Sam forced his shoulders down and discarded several explanations. The point was not to frighten them, after all. “I’d rather have them and not need them …”

“Then need them and not have them.” Her lips twitched a little. “I guess we’re not the only ones nervous about leaving.”

He shrugged. “Apparently not. I’ll feel better once we break atmo.”

That was apparently an acceptable response. Paranoia really was a virtue, after all. And their little _tête-à-tête_ those few weeks ago was probably not much farther from her thoughts than it was his.

“C’mon, before all the food’s gone.” He followed her back to the kitchen, and managed a passable show of enthusiasm for leaving in the morning. Although, he wasn’t faking the desire to leave, just the reason.

 

* * *

 

As soon as everyone had settled down for the night – a feat made more difficult by both the anticipation and the sugar – Sam slipped out the door. If D’Angelo _had_ recognized him and told the rest of the crew, Sam didn’t want to lead them back to the children.

He didn’t know how many of _Hound of Mars_ ’ crew had stayed close, and how many had already spread to the more recreational spots around the planet. If He was very, _very_ lucky, he could handle this before the two called in reinforcements. Either way, he needed to make sure he wasn’t going to be followed to _Sow’s Ear_. He needed to keep them looking on-planet.

D’Angelo had a very serious flaw, in Sam’s opinion. He’d never met a bottle of alcohol that didn’t like him, and the seedier a bar he could meet them in, the better. If he wasn’t on the job, he wasn’t sober. It was one of the reasons they hadn’t considered him when they had been recruiting for Chorus.

_Well, that, and he was a complete douchebag._

It took a few hours prowling the less reputable blocks before the hook set.

“Locus.”

Sam suppressed the flinch at hearing that name. The darkness was already slithering along under his skin, and he needed to keep it – keep _Locus_ – leashed. Controlled. He was already going to put one more black mark on what was left of his soul as it was.

D’Angelo stepped out of a particularly loud establishment. Sam tilted his head in acknowledgement, but didn’t speak. They both ignored the curses and crashes filtering through the door.

The mercenary looked him over. “ I wasn’t sure it was you at first. Gotta admit, that’s one hell of a disguise. Where’d you find the brats? The local flea market?”

“Something like that,” Sam replied. 

D’Angelo laughed, a braying sound that set Sam’s nerves even more on edge. “And here I thought you didn’t have a sense of humor.” He strolled closer, fairly steady but still stinking of rotgut. “Always thought that was Felix’s schtick.”

 _Show’s how perceptive_ he _was._

“Rivera would have told me I was crazy, like she usually does–” So he hadn’t mentioned seeing Sam. That would make things easier. If it were true. “–but the more I thought about it, the more sure I was. Never thought you’d have the patience to put up with kids, though. Even for a cover.”

Sam felt his eyebrows trying to escape to his hairline. “Apparently you didn’t pay any attention to Felix.” He smirked at the muttered _Fuck you_ that only he could hear.

D’Angelo laughed again. “You are just _full_ of surprises tonight.” He stopped a few feet from Sam.

“Do you have a point to this conversation?” Sam growled.

“Now _there’s_ the Locus I remember.” D’Angelo slid his hands into his pockets. To anyone else, it would be a casual gesture. To Sam, it was a threat. “Why don’t we continue this somewhere a little more private. Talk a little business.” He smiled, all teeth and no amusement. “Cap’n’ll be pretty impressed if I can get you to sign on.”

In other words, stall him until backup arrived. If he’d been smart, he wouldn’t have stopped Sam at all; he would have just tailed him. Waited for the numerical advantage.

“Why would I want to do that?” Sam started walking again, taking careful note of every person, every shadow around them. There were far more of the latter than the former, given how few of the streetlights worked.

D’Angelo fell in beside him. “Well, trashed colonies don’t pay that much, ya know? More profit having you on the payroll instead of in chains.” He glanced at Sam out of the corner of his eye. “Good deal all around, right?”

_Maybe you’d be interested in a nice bridge or three as well._

“I’m listening.”

“Way I see it, having you around only boosts our rep. They broke the mold when they made you.” He spat on the sidewalk. “Shame about Felix, though. You two were a hell of a team. Couldn’t have paid me enough to take a job against the two of you.”

Sam just nodded. So far the alleys they’d passed had been occupied by prostitutes and addicts, committing the oldest sins in the newest ways.

_And you’re going to add one more._

It was far easier than it should be, to take a man’s life, Sam thought, as D’Angelo sagged against him. It was also easy to tumble one into a dumpster after emptying his pockets. No phone or comlink, so Sam just took his wallet and weapons, to dispose of in a different neighborhood.

_So, is this one a tragedy or a statistic?_

 

* * *

 

The sound of the lock engaging fell on him with a weight far out of proportion to its size. Sam sighed and rested his forehead against the door. He was fooling himself. Tonight had proved it. No matter what he pretended, he was still a monster wearing the skin of a man.

The worst part, the part that frightened him down to his bones, was how _calm_ he was about what he’d just done. He couldn’t make himself regret it in the least. D’Angelo had represented a threat, and Sam had neutralized that threat, with the same ruthless efficiency he used in the field. 

_So much for “no more killing.”_

Maybe D’Angelo _had_ mentioned seeing him earlier. Maybe he hadn’t. By the end of the day, it wouldn’t matter. The seven of the would be aboard _Sow’s Ear_ and headed out-system. It would take time for anyone to piece it together, and the merc had been right about one thing; the children would definitely confuse the trail.

His eyes landed on the small pile of luggage as he turned. What happened to him didn’t matter, as long as they were safe. If he was a monster, let him be one that was leashed.


	10. X. “Aut viam inveniam aut faciam.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _10\. “I will either find a way or make one.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue

_“_ Sow’s Ear _, this is Astro Control. You are cleared for departure.”_

_“_ Sow’s Ear _copies, A. C. So long and thanks for all the fish.”_

_“... godspeed,_ Sow’s Ear _.”_

Sam tried, he truly did, but he couldn’t manage to keep a straight face at the _thoroughly_ unprofessional departure announcements over the ship’s intercom. Having an excited five-year-old on one’s shoulders tended to do that.

So did watching four more children lean forward and practically press their noses to the observation glass as the freighter peeled away from its parking orbit. The planet on which they had been born, had spent their entire lives, slipped out of view, leaving the vast expanse of space and the tiny dots of ships crossing it before them. 

Estelle dug her fingers into Sam’s hair. “Aren’t you s’pposed to be on the bridge? It’s your ship.” The slight tremor in her voice betrayed the nervousness under her excitement, now that _leaving_ was a reality. Sam rubbed a thumb over her leg soothingly.

Captain Grzelak laughed. She’d made some noises about enjoying people’s first reactions to space travel and had joined them in the tiny lounge. “If my crew can’t manage my ship for a few minutes without me, they don’t deserve to be _on_ my ship at all.” She flashed Estelle a conspiratorial smiled. “After all, when would I get to pee?”

Estelle buried her face in Sam’s hair and giggled. A little of the tension drained out of her grip, something Sam was silently grateful for.

Madelyn stepped up beside him. “We’re really doing this. We’re really leaving.”

Sam turned, carefully, so he didn’t dislodge his passenger. “Having second thoughts?” He hoped not. It was a bit late for those.

“No. Just … it never occurred to me that this … any of this could happen. I thought we’d be down there,” she gestured back to the planet, “forever.”

He couldn’t help the small smile. “And I thought I’d be leaving alone.” He hadn’t given up on sending everything he could to Chorus. He wasn’t sure what he’d do after that, if – _when_ – he was discovered.

He knew this couldn’t last; he didn’t deserve the comfort, the feeling of _belonging_ he felt when he was with them. But for now, he would do what he could for these people who trusted him beyond all reason. “This is … not what I had planned a year ago.”

“ ‘Man plans, God laughs,’ ” Ant murmured, still staring out at the stars.

_Ain’t that the truth._

* * *

 

Quidquid latine dictum, altum videtur.

_Whatever is said in Latin, appears profound._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Felix just has to have the last word XD
> 
> Once again, a cracky little idea (Locus + street rats) spirals out of my control. Thanks for coming on this wild ride with me! 
> 
> As before, all the thanks and kudos and love to [eclaire-de-lune](http://eclaire-de-lune.tumblr.com) for being such a _fantastic_ beta, and [vlasdygoth](http://vlasdygoth.tumblr.com) for the absolutely _wonderful_ artwork!
> 
> (This was not an attempt at a "redemption" fic. This is, hopefully, what the summary says: "realizing you need to turn around and climb back out." Can he, as Carolina mused back in s10, get all the way back to good? Probably not. But making things better is worth doing anyway.)


End file.
